Ulrich  Middeldorf 


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in  2013 


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LECTURES 


ON  ART, 


AND 


POEMS, 

BY 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


EDITED 

By  RICHARD  HENRY  DANA,  Jr. 


NEW  YORK: 
BAKER   AND  SCRIBNER 

M  DCCC  L, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by  Martha  K. 
Dana,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  BY  METCALF  AND  COMPANY, 
PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY, 


THE  GETTY  CLtiiUi 
UBRAftf 


PREFACE  BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Allston,  it  was  determined,  by  those 
who  had  charge  of  his  papers,  to  prepare  his  biography  and 
correspondence,  and  publish  them  with  his  writings  in  prose 
and  verse  ;  a  work  which  would  have  occupied  two  volumes  of 
about  the  same  size  with  the  present.  A  delay  has  unfortu- 
nately occurred  in  the  preparation  of  the  biography  and  corre- 
spondence ;  and,  as  there  have  been  frequent  calls  for  a  publi- 
cation of  his  poems,  and  of  the  Lectures  on  Art  he  is  known 
to  have  written,  it  has  been  thought  best  to  give  them  to  the 
public  in  the  present  form,  without  awaiting  the  completion  of 
the  whole  design.  It  may  be  understood,  however,  that,  when 
the  biography  and  correspondence  are  published,  it  will  be  in 
a  volume  precisely  corresponding  with  the  present,  so  as  to 
carry  out  the  original  design. 

I  will  not  anticipate  the  duty  of  the  biographer  by  an  extend- 
ed notice  of  the  life  of  Mr.  Allston  ;  but  it  may  be  interesting  to 
some  readers  to  know  the  outline  of  his  life,  and  the  different 
circumstances  under  which  the  several  pieces  in  this  volume 
were  written. 

Washington  Allston  was  born  at  Charleston,  in  South 
Carolina,  on  the  5th  of  November,  1779,  of  a  family  distin- 
guished in  the  history  of  that  State  and  of  the  country,  being  a 


iv 


PREFACE. 


branch  of  a  family  of  the  baronet  rank  in  the  titled  common- 
alty of  England.  Like  most  young  men  of  the  South  in  his 
position  at  that  period,  he  was  sent  to  New  England  to  receive 
his  school  and  college  education.  His  school  days  were  passed 
at  Newport,  in  Rhode  Island,  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  Robert 
Rogers.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in  1796,  and  graduated 
in  1800.  While  at  school  and  college,  he  developed  in  a  mark- 
ed manner  a  love  of  nature,  music,  poetry,  and  painting.  En- 
dowed with  senses  capable  of  the  nicest  perceptions,  and  with  a 
mental  and  moral  constitution  which  tended  always,  with  the 
certainty  of  a  physical  law,  to  the  beautiful,  the  pure,  and  the 
sublime,  he  led  what  many  might  call  an  ideal  life.  Yet  was  he 
far  from  being  a  recluse,  or  from  being  disposed  to  an  excess  of 
introversion.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a  popular,  high-spirited 
youth,  almost  passionately  fond  of  society,  maintaining  an  un- 
usual number  of  warm  friendships,  and  unsurpassed  by  any  of 
the  young  men  of  his  day  in  adaptedness  to  the  elegancies  and 
courtesies  of  the  more  refined  portions  of  the  moving  world. 
Romances  of  love,  knighthood,  and  heroic  deeds,  tales  of  ban- 
ditti, and  stories  of  supernatural  beings,  were  his  chief  delight 
in  his  early  days.  Yet  his  classical  attainments  were  consider- 
able, and,  as  a  scholar  in  the  literature  of  his  own  language, 
his  reputation  was  early  established.  He  delivered  a  poem  on 
taking  his  degree,  which  was  much  admired  in  its  day. 

On  leaving  college,  he  returned  to  South  Carolina.  Having 
determined  to  devote  his  life  to  the  fine  arts,  he  sold,  hastily 
and  at  a  sacrifice,  his  share  of  a  considerable  patrimonial  estate, 
and  embarked  for  London  in  the  autumn  of  1801.  Immediately 
upon  his  arrival,  he  became  a  student  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
of  winch  his  countryman,  West,  was  President,  with  whom  he 
formed  an  intimate  and  lasting  friendship.    After  three  years 


PREFACE.  V 

spent  in  England,  and  a  shorter  stay  at  Paris,  he  went  to  Italy, 
where  he  spent  four  years  devoted  exclusively  to  the  study  of 
his  art.  At  Rome  began  his  intimacy  with  Coleridge.  Among 
the  many  subsequent  expressions  of  his  feeling  toward  this  great 
man,  none,  perhaps,  is  more  striking  than  the  following  extract 
from  one  of  his  letters :  —  "  To  no  other  man  do  I  owe  so  much, 
intellectually,  as  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted in  Rome,  and  who  has  honored  me  with  his  friend- 
ship for  more  than  five-and-twenty  years.  He  used  to  call 
Rome  the  silent  city  ;  but  I  never  could  think  of  it  as  such 
while  with  him  ;  for,  meet  him  when  and  where  I  would,  the 
fountain  of  his  mind  was  never  dry,  but,  like  the  far-reaching 
aqueducts  that  once  supplied  this  mistress  of  the  world,  its  liv- 
ing stream  seemed  specially  to  flow  for  every  classic  ruin  over 
which  we  wandered.  And  when  I  recall  some  of  our  walks 
under  the  pines  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  I  am  almost  tempt- 
ed to  dream  that  I  have  once  listened  to  Plato  in  the  groves  of 
the  Academy.'"  Readers  of  Coleridge  know  in  what  estimation 
he  held  the  qualities  and  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Allston.  Be- 
side Coleridge  and  West,  he  numbered  among  his  friends  in 
England,  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Lamb,  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
Reynolds,  and  Fuseli. 

In  1809,  Mr.  Allston  returned  to  America,  and  remained  two 
years  in  Boston,  his  adopted  home,  and  there  married  the  sister 
of  Dr.  Channing.  In  1811,  he  went  again  to  England,  where 
his  reputation  as  an  artist  had  been  -completely  established.  Be- 
fore his  departure,  he  delivered  a  poem  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society  at  Cambridge.  During  a  severe  illness,  he  re- 
moved from  London  to  Clifton,  at  which  place  he  wrote  "  The 
Sylphs  of  the  Seasons."   In  1813,  he  made  his  first,  and,  with 


Vi  PREFACE, 

the  exception  of  "  Monaldi,"  twenty-eight  years  afterwards,  his 
only  publication.  This  was  a  small  volume,  entitled  "  The 
Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  and  other  Poems,"  published  in  Lon- 
don ;  and,  during  the  same  year,  republished  in  Boston  under 
the  direction  of  his  friends,  Professor  Willard  of  Cambridge 
and  Mr.  Edmund  T.  Dana.  This  volume  was  well  received, 
and  gave  him  a  place  among  the  first  poets  of  his  country. 
The  smaller  poems  in  that  edition  extend  as  far  as  page  289  of 
the  present  volume. 

Beside  the  long  and  serious  illness  through  which  he  passed, 
his  spirit  was  destined  to  suffer  a  deeper  wound  by  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Allston,  in  London,  during  the  same  year.  These  events 
gave  to  his  mind  a  more  earnest  and  undivided  interest  in  his 
spiritual  relations,  and  drew  him  more  closely  than  ever  before 
to  his  religious  duties.  He  received  the  rite  of  confirmation, 
and  through  life  was  a  devout  adherent  to  the  Christian  doctrine 
and  discipline. 

The  character  of  Mr.  Allston's  religious  feelings  may  be  gath- 
ered, incidentally,  from  many  of  his  writings.  It  is  a  subject  to 
be  treated  with  the  reserve  and  delicacy  with  which  he  himself 
would  have  had  it  invested.  Few  minds  have  been  more  thor- 
oughly imbued  with  belief  in  the  reality  of  the  unseen  world  ; 
few  have  given  more  full  assent  to  the  truth,  that  "  the  things 
which  are  seen  are  temporal,  the  things  which  are  not  seen  are 
eternal."  This  was  not  merely  an  adopted  opinion,  a  convic- 
tion imposed  upon  his  understanding ;  it  was  of  the  essence  of 
his  spiritual  constitution,  one  of  the  conditions  of  his  rational 
existence.  To  him,  the  Supreme  Being  was  no  vague,  mystical 
source  of  light  and  truth,  or  an  impersonation  of  goodness  and 
truth  themselves ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  a  cold  rationalistic 


PREFACE.  Vli 

notion  of  an  unapproachable  executor  of  natural  and  moral 
laws.  His  spirit  rested  in  the  faith  of  a  sympathetic  God.  His 
belief  was  in  a  Being  as  infinitely  minute  and  sympathetic  in 
his  providences,  as  unlimited  in  his  power  and  knowledge.  Nor 
need  it  be  said,  that  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  central 
truths  of  Christianity,  the  Incarnation  and  Redemption  ;  that 
he  turned  from  unaided  speculation  to  the  inspired  record  and 
the  visible  Church ;  that  he  sought  aid  in  the  sacraments  or- 
dained for  the  strengthening  of  infirm  humanity,  and  looked  for 
the  resurrection  of  the  dead,  and  the  life  of  the  world  to  come. 

After  a  second  residence  of  seven  years  in  Europe,  he  re- 
turned to  America  in  1818,  and  again  made  Boston  his  home. 
There,  in  a  circle  of  warmly  attached  friends,  surrounded  by  a 
sympathy  and  admiration  which  his  elevation  and  purity,  the 
entire  harmony  of  his  life  and  pursuits,  could  not  fail  to  create, 
he  devoted  himself  to  his  art,  the  labor  of  his  love. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  enumerate  his  paintings,  or  to  speak 
of  his  character  as  an  artist.  His  general  reading  he  continued 
to  the  last,  with  the  earnestness  of  youth.  As  he  retired  from 
society,  his  taste  inclined  him  to  metaphysical  studies,  the  more, 
perhaps,  from  their  contrast  with  the  usual  occupations  of  his 
mind.  He  took  particular  pleasure  in  works  of  devout  Christian 
speculation,  without,  however,  neglecting  a  due  proportion  of 
strictly  devotional  literature.  These  he  varied  by  a  constant  re- 
currence to  the  great  epic  and  dramatic  masters,  and  occasional 
reading  of  the  earlier  and  the  living  novelists,  tales  of  wild  ro- 
mance and  lighter  fiction,  voyages  and  travels,  biographies  and 
letters.  Nor  was  he  without  a  strong  interest  in  the  current 
politics  of  his  own  country  and  of  England,  as  to  which  his 
principles  were  highly  conservative. 


viii 


PREFACE. 


Upon  his  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  the  late  Judge  Dana, 
in  1830,  he  removed  to  Cambridge,  and  soon  afterwards  be- 
gan the  preparation  of  a  course  of  lectures  on  Art,  which  he 
intended  to  deliver  to  a  select  audience  of  artists  and  men 
of  letters  in  Boston.  Four  of  these  he  completed.  Rough 
drafts  of  two  others  were  found  among  his  papers,  but  not  in  a 
state  fit  for  publication.  In  1841,  he  published  his  tale  of 
u  Monaldi,"  a  production  of  his  early  life.  The  poems  in  the 
present  volume,  not  included  in  the  volume  of  1813,  are,  with 
two  exceptions,  the  work  of  his  later  years.  In  them,  as  in  his 
paintings  of  the  same  period,  may  be  seen  the  extreme  atten- 
tion to  finish,  always  his  characteristic,  which,  added  to  increas- 
ing bodily  pain  and  infirmity,  was  the  cause  of  his  leaving  so 
much  that  is  unfinished  behind  him. 

His  death  occurred  at  his  own  house,  in  Cambridge,  a  little 
past  midnight  on  the  morning  of  Sunday,  the  9th  of  July, 
1843.  He  had  finished  a  clay  and  week  of  labor  in  his  studio, 
upon  his  great  picture  of  Belshazzar's  Feast ;  the  fresh  paint 
denoting  that  the  last  touches  of  his  pencil  were  given  to  that 
glorious  but  melancholy  monument  of  the  best  years  of  his  later 
life.  Having  conversed  with  his  retiring  family  with  peculiar 
solemnity  and  earnestness  upon  the  obligation  and  beauty  of  a 
pure  spiritual  life,  and  on  the  realities  of  the  world  to  come,  he 
had  seated  himself  at  his  nightly  employment  of  reading  and 
writing,  which  he  usually  carried  into  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning.  In  the  silence  and  solitude  of  this  occupation,  in  a 
moment,  "  with  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light,"  which 
was  even  then  approaching,  his  spirit  was  called  away  to  its 
proper  home. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE  BY  THE  EDITOR   Hi 

LECTURES  ON  ART. 

PRELIMINARY  NOTE.  IDEAS          ......  3 

INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE          ......  9 

ART   .  .  .  .75 

FORM   Ill 

COMPOSITION   143 

APHORISMS. 

SENTENCES  WRITTEN  BY  MR.   ALLSTON  ON  THE  WALLS  OF  HIS 

STUDIO   167 

THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC        ......  179 

POEMS. 

THE  SYLPHS  OF  THE  SEASONS,  A  POET'S  DREAM    .          .          .  199 

THE  TWO  PAINTERS,  A  TALE   218 

ECCENTRICITY   240 


X 


CONTENTS. 


THE  PAINT-KING            ........  255 

MYRTILLA   263 

TO  A  LADY,  WHO  SPOKE  SLIGHTINGLY  OF  POETS  .  .  .  269 
SONNET  ON  A  FALLING  GROUP  IN  THE  LAST  JUDGMENT  OF  MICHAEL 

ANGELO,  IN  THE  CAPPELLA  SISTINA  .  .  .  .  .  273 
SONNET  ON  THE  GROUP  OF  THE  THREE  ANGELS  BEFORE  THE  TENT 

OF  ABRAHAM,  BY  RAFFAELLE,  IN  THE  VATICAN  .  .  274 
SONNET  ON  SEEING  THE  PICTURE  OF  jEOLUS  BY  PELLIGRINO  TIBAL- 

DI,  IN  THE  INSTITUTE  AT  BOLOGNA  .....  275 
SONNET  ON  REMBRANDT  ;   OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  PICTURE  OF  JACOB'S 

DREAM      .          .  "       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  276 

SONNET  ON  THE  LUXEMBOURG  GALLERY    .          .          .          .  277 

SONNET    TO    MY    VENERABLE    FRIEND,    THE    PRESIDENT    OF  THE 

ROYAL  ACADEMY                                                                               .  278 

THE  MAD  LOVER  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS    .          .          .  279 

FIRST  LOVE.   A  BALLAD   282 

THE  COMPLAINT       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  284 

WILL,  THE  MANIAC.  A  BALLAD   287 

AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND   290 

WRITTEN  IN  SPRING                                                                            .  293 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE   296 

GLORIA  MUNDI   316 

THE  ATONEMENT   319 

TO  MY  SISTER   322 

SONNET.  THE  FRENCH   REVOLUTION          .....  324 

SONNET.  THOUGHT    ........  325 

SONNET.  A  SMILE   326 

SONNET.        ART   327 

THE  CALYCANTHUS   328 

ROSALIE   331 

THE  SPANISH  MAID   333 

THE  TUSCAN  GIRL   336 


CONTENTS.  Xi 

THE  YOUNG  TROUBADOUR    338 

THE  BETROTHED   343 

SONNET  ON  THE   STATUE   OF   AN  ANGEL,    BY    BIENAIME,    IN  THE 

POSSESSION  OF  J.   S.   COPLEY  GREENE,  ESQ   315 

SONNET  ON  THE  LATE  S.   T.   COLERIDGE         ....  346 

SONNET.  IMMORTALITY           .......  347 

THE  MARIGOLD   348 

A  FRAGMENT   .351 

THE  NIGHT-MARE                                                                         .          .  352 

A  FRAGMENT   356 

THE  MAGIC  SLIPPERS   357 

A  FRAGMENT   360 

THE  PARTING       .          .          .   361 

ON  GREENOUGH'S  GROUP  OF  THE  ANGEL  AND  CHILD             .          .  363 

SONG   366 

ON  KEAN'S  HAMLET          .          .          .          .                   .          .          .  367 

A  WORD.  MAN            ........  370 

A  FRAGMENT             .........  371 

ON  MICHAEL  ANGELO    ........  375 

RUBENS  •  376 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  ENNUYEE  "      .          .  377 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


1 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE. 


IDEAS. 

As  the  word  idea  will  frequently  occur,  and  will  be  found 
also  to  hold  an  important  relation  to  our  present  subject,  we 
shall  endeavour,  in  limine,  to  possess  our  readers  of  the  par- 
ticular sense  in  which  we  understand  and  apply  it. 

An  Idea,  then,  according  to  our  apprehension,  is  the  highest 
or  most  perfect  form  in  which  any  thing,  whether  of  the  phys- 
ical, the  intellectual,  or  the  spiritual,  may  exist  to  the  mind. 
By  form,  we  do  not  mean  figure  or  image  (though  these  may 
be  included  in  relation  to  the  physical)  ;  but  that  condition, 
or  state,  in  which  such  objects  become  cognizable  to  the  mind, 
or,  in  other  words,  become  objects  of  consciousness. 

Ideas  are  of  two  kinds ;  which  we  shall  distinguish  by  the 
terms  primary  and  secondary:  the  first  being  the  manifesta- 
tion of  objective  realities ;  the  second,  that  of  the  reflex  prod- 
uct, so  to  speak,  of  the  mental  constitution.  In  both  cases, 
they  may  be  said  to  be  self-affirmed,  —  that  is,  they  carry  in 
themselves  their  own  evidence  ;  being  therefore  not  only  inde- 
pendent of  the  reflective  faculties,  but  constituting  the  only  un- 
changeable ground  of  Truth,  to  which  those  faculties  may  ulti- 
mately refer.  Yet  have  these  Ideas  no  living  energy  in  them- 
selves ;  they  are  but  the  forms,  as  we  have  said,  through  or  in 
which  a  higher  Power  manifests  to  the  consciousness  the  su- 


4 


LECTURES   ON  ART, 


preme  truth  of  all  things  real,  in  respect  to  the  first  class  ;  and, 
in  respect  to  the  second,  the  imaginative  truths  of  the  mental 
products,  or  mental  combinations.  Of  the  nature  and  mode  of 
operation  of  the  Power  to  which  we  refer,  we  know,  and  can 
know,  nothing ;  it  is  one  of  those  secrets  of  our  being  which 
He  who  made  us  has  kept  to  himself.  And  we  should  be  con- 
tent with  the  assurance,  that  we  have  in  it  a  sure  and  intuitive 
guide  to  a  reverent  knowledge  of  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of 
his  works,  —  nay,  of  his  own  adorable  reality.  And  who  shall 
gainsay  it,  should  we  add,  that  this  mysterious  Power  is  essen- 
tially immanent  in  that  "  breath  of  life,"  by  which  man  be- 
comes "  a  living  soul  "  ? 

In  the  following  remarks  we  shall  confine  ourself  to  the  first 
class  of  Ideas,  namely,  the  Real ;  leaving  the  second  to  be 
noticed  hereafter. 

As  to  number,  ideas  are  limited  only  by  the  number  of  kinds,, 
without  direct  relation  to  degrees ;  every  object,  therefore, 
having  in  itself  a  distinctive  essential,  has  also  its  distinct 
idea;  while  two  or  more  objects  of  the  same  kind,  however 
differing  in  degree,  must  consequently  refer  only  to  one  and 
the  same.  For  instance,  though  a  hundred  animals  should 
differ  in  size,  strength,  or  color,  yet,  if  none  of  these  peculi- 
arities are  essential  to  the  species,  they  would  all  refer  to  the 
same  supreme  idea. 

The  same  law  applies  equally,  and  with  the  same  limitation, 
to  the  essential  differences  in  the  intellectual,  the  moral,  and 
the  spiritual.  All  ideas,  however,  have  but  a  potential  exist- 
ence until  they  are  called  into  the  consciousness  by  some  real 
object ;  the  required  condition  of  the  object  being  a  predeter- 
mined correspondence,  or  correlation.  Every  such  object  we 
term  an  assimilant. 

With  respect  to  those  ideas  which  relate  to  the  physical 
world,  we  remark,  that,  though  the  assimilants  required  are 
supplied  by  the  senses,  the  senses  have  in  themselves  no  pro- 
ductive, cooperating  energy,  being  but  the  passive  instruments, 
or  medium,  through  which  they  are  conveyed.    That  the 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE. 


5 


senses,  in  this  relation,  are  merely  passive,  admits  of  no  ques- 
tion, from  the  obvious  difference  between  the  idea  and  the 
objects.  The  senses  can  do  no  more  than  transmit  the  external 
in  its  actual  forms,  leaving  the  images  in  the  mind  exactly  as 
they  found  them ;  whereas  the  intuitive  power  rejects,  or  as- 
similates, indefinitely,  until  they  are  resolved  into  the  proper 
perfect  form.  Now  the  power  which  prescribes  that  form 
must,  of  necessity,  be  antecedent  to  the  presentation  of  the 
objects  which  it  thus  assimilates,  as  it  could  not  else  give  con- 
sistence and  unity  to  what  was  before  separate  or  fragmentary. 
And  every  one  who  has  ever  realized  an  idea  of  the  class  in 
which  alone  we  compare  the  assimilants  with  the  ideal  form, 
be  he  poet,  painter,  or  philosopher,  well  knows  the  wide  differ- 
ence between  the  materials  and  their  result.  When  an  idea  is 
thus  realized  and  made  objective,  it  affirms  its  own  truth,  nor 
can  any  process  of  the  understanding  shake  its  foundation  ; 
nay,  it  is  to  the  mind  an  essential,  imperative  truth,  then 
emerging,  as  it  were,  from  the  dark  potential  into  the  light 
of  reality. 

If  this  be  so,  the  inference  is  plain,  that  the  relation  be- 
tween the  actual  and  the  ideal  is  one  of  necessity,  and  there- 
fore, also,  is  the  predetermined  correspondence  between  the 
prescribed  form  of  an  idea  and  its  assimilant ;  for  how  other- 
wise could  the  former  become  recipient  of  that  which  was 
repugnant  or  indifferent,  when  the  presence  of  the  latter  con- 
stitutes the  very  condition  by  which  it  is  manifested,  or  can  be 
known  to  exist  ?  By  actual,  here,  we  do  not  mean  the  ex- 
clusively physical,  but  whatever,  in  the  strictest  sense,  can  be 
called  an  object,  as  forming  the  opposite  to  a  mere  subject  of 
the  mind. 

It  would  appear,  then,  that  what  we  call  ourself  must  have  a 
dual  reality,  that  is,  in  the  mind  and  in  the  senses,  since  neither 
alone  could  possibly  explain  the  phenomena  of  the  other  ;  con- 
sequently, in  the  existence  of  either  we  have  clearly  implied 
the  reality  of  both.  And  hence  must  follow  the  still  more  im- 
portant truth,  that,  in  the  conscious  presence  of  any  spiritual 

i* 


6 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


idea,  we  have  the  surest  proof  of  a  spiritual  object ;  nor  is  this 
the  less  certain,  though  we  perceive  not  the  assimilant.  Nay, 
a  spiritual  assimilant  cannot  be  perceived,  but,  to  use  the 
words  of  St.  Paul,  is  "  spiritually  discerned, "  that  is,  by  a 
sense,  so  to  speak,  of  our  own  spirit.  But  to  illustrate  by  ex- 
ample :  we  could  not,  for  instance,  have  the  ideas  of  good  and 
evil  without  their  objective  realities,  nor  of  right  and  wrong,  in 
any  intelligible  form,  without  the  moral  law  to  which  they  re- 
fer, —  which  law  we  call  the  Conscience  ;  nor  could  we  have 
the  idea  of  a  moral  law  without  a  moral  lawgiver,  and,  if 
moral,  then  intelligent,  and,  if  intelligent,  then  personal ; 
in  a  word,  we  could  not  now  have,  as  we  know  we  have,  the 
idea  of  conscience,  without  an  objective,  personal  God.  Such 
ideas  may  well  be  called  revelations,  since,  without  any  per- 
ceived assimilant,  we  find  them  equally  affirmed  with  those 
ideas  which  relate  to  the  purely  physical. 

But  here  it  may  be  asked,  How  are  we  to  distinguish  an  Idea 
from  a  mere  notion  ?  We  answer,  By  its  self-affirmation. 
For  an  ideal  truth,  having  its  own  evidence  in  itself,  can 
neither  be  proved  nor  disproved  by  any  thing  out  of  itself ; 
whatever,  then,  impresses  the  mind  as  truth,  is  truth  until  it 
can  be  shown  to  be  false  ;  and  consequently,  in  the  converse, 
whatever  can  be  brought  into  the  sphere  of  the  understand- 
ing, as  a  dialectic  subject,  is  not  an  Idea.  It  will  be  observed, 
however,  that  we  do  not  say  an  idea  may  not  be  denied  ;  but 
to  deny  is  not  to  disprove.  Many  things  are  denied  in  direct 
contradiction  to  fact ;  for  the  mind  can  command,  and  in  no 
measured  degree,  the  power  of  self-blinding,  so  that  it  cannot 
see  what  is  actually  before  it.  This  is  a  psychological  fact, 
which  may  be  attested  by  thousands,  who  can  well  remember 
the  time  when  they  had  once  clearly  discerned  what  has  now 
vanished  from  their  minds.  Nor  does  the  actual  cessation  of 
these  primeval  forms,  or  the  after  presence  of  their  fragmen- 
tary, nay,  disfigured  relics,  disprove  their  reality,  or  their 
original  integrity,  as  we  could  not  else  call  them  up  in  their 
proper  forms  at  any  future  time,  to  the  reacknowledging  their 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE. 


1 


truth  :  a  resuscitation  and  result,  so  to  speak,  which  many 
have  experienced. 

In  conclusion  :  though  it  be  but  one  and  the  same  Power 
that  prescribes  the  form  and  determines  the  truth  of  all  Ideas, 
there  is  yet  an  essential  difference  between  the  two  classes 
of  ideas  to  which  we  have  referred  ;  for  it  may  well  be  doubted 
whether  any  Primary  Idea  can  ever  be  fully  realized  by  a  finite 
mind,  —  at  least  in  the  present  state.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
idea  of  beauty.  In  its  highest  form,  as  presented  to  the  con- 
sciousness, we  still  find  it  referring  to  something  beyond  and 
above  itself,  as  if  it  were  but  an  approximation  to  a  still  higher 
form.  The  truth  of  this,  we  think,  will  be  particularly  felt  by 
the  artist,  whether  poet  or  painter,  whose  mind  may  be  sup- 
posed, from  his  natural  bias,  to  be  more  peculiarly  capable  of 
its  highest  developement ;  and  what  true  artist  was  ever  satis- 
fied with  any  idea  of  beauty  of  which  he  is  conscious  ?  From 
this  approximated  form,  however,  he  doubtless  derives  a  high 
degree  of  pleasure,  nay,  one  of  the  purest  of  which  his  nature 
is  capable  ;  yet  still  is  the  pleasure  modified,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  by  an  undefined  yearning  for  what  he  feels  can 
never  be  realized.  And  wherefore  this  craving,  but  for  the 
archetype  of  that  which  called  it  forth  ?  —  When  we  say  not 
satisfied,  we  do  not  mean  discontented,  but  simply  not  in  full 
fruition.  And  it  is  better  that  it  should  be  so,  since  one  of  the 
happiest  elements  of  our  nature  is  that  which  continually  im- 
pels it  towards  the  indefinite  and  unattainable.  So  far  as  we 
know,  the  like  limits  may  be  set  to  every  other  primary  idea, 
—  as  if  the  Creator  had  reserved  to  himself  alone  the  possible 
contemplation  of  the  archetypes  of  his  universe. 

With  regard  to  the  other  class,  that  of  Secondary  Ideas, 
which  we  have  called  the  reflex  product  of  the  mind,  their 
distinguishing  characteristic  is,  that  they  not  only  admit  of  a 
perfect  realization,  but  also  of  outward  manifestation,  so  as 
to  be  communicated  to  others.  All  works  of  imagination,  so 
called,  present  examples  of  this.  Hence  they  may  also  be 
termed  imitative  or  imaginative.    For,  though  they  draw  their 


8  LECTURES   ON  ART. 

assimilants  from  the  actual  world,  and  are  likewise  regulated 
by  the  unknown  Power  before  mentioned,  yet  are  they  but 
the  forms  of  what,  as  a  whole,  have  no  actual  existence  ;  — 
they  are  nevertheless  true  to  the  mind,  and  are  made  so  by  the 
same  Power  which  affirms  their  possibility.  This  species  of 
Truth  we  shall  hereafter  have  occasion  to  distinguish  as  Poetic 
Truth. 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


Next  to  the  developement  of  our  moral  nature,  to 
have  subordinated  the  senses  to  the  mind  is  the  highest 
triumph  of  the  civilized  state.  Were  it  possible  to  em- 
body the  present  complicated  scheme  of  society,  so  as 
to  bring  it  before  us  as  a  visible  object,  there  is  perhaps 
nothing  in  the  world  of  sense  that  would  so  fill  us  with 
wonder ;  for  what  is  there  in  nature  that  may  not  fall 
within  its  limits  ?  and  yet  how  small  a  portion  of  this 
stupendous  fabric  will  be  found  to  have  any  direct, 
much  less  exclusive,  relation  to  the  actual  wants  of  the 
body !  It  might  seem,  indeed,  to  an  unreflecting  ob- 
server, that  our  physical  necessities,  which,  truly  estimat- 
ed, are  few  and  simple,  have  rather  been  increased  than 
diminished  by  the  civilized  man.  But  this  is  not  true ; 
for,  if  a  wider  duty  is  imposed  on  the  senses,  it  is  only 
to  minister  to  the  increased  demands  of  the  imagination, 
which  is  now  so  mingled  with  our  every-day  concerns, 
even  with  our  dress,  houses,  and  furniture,  that,  except 
with  the  brutalized,  the  purely  sensuous  wants  might 
almost  be  said  to  have  become  extinct :  with  the  culti- 
vated and  refined,  they  are  at  least  so  modified  as  to  be 
no  longer  prominent. 

But  this  refining  on  the  physical,  like  every  thing  else, 


10 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


has  had  its  opponents :  it  is  declaimed  against  as  ar- 
tificial. If  by  artificial  is  meant  unnatural,  we  can- 
not so  consider  it ;  but  hold,  on  the  contrary,  that  the 
whole  multiform  scheme  of  the  civilized  state  is  not 
only  in  accordance  with  our  nature,  but  an  essential 
condition  to  the  proper  developement  of  the  human 
being.  It  is  presupposed  by  the  very  wants  of  his 
mind ;  nor  could  it  otherwise  have  been,  any  more  than 
could  have  been  the  cabin  of  the  beaver,  or  the  curious 
hive  of  the  bee,  without  their  preexisting  instincts ;  it 
is  therefore  in  the  highest  sense  natural,  as  growing  out 
of  the  inherent  desires  of  the  mind. 

But  we  would  not  be  misunderstood.  When  we 
speak  of  the  refined  state  as  not  out  of  nature,  we 
mean  such  results  as  proceed  from  the  legitimate 
growth  of  our  mental  constitution,  which  we  suppose 
to  be  grounded  in  permanent,  universal  principles ;  and, 
whatever  modifications,  however  subtile,  and  appar- 
ently visionary,  may  follow  their  operation  in  the  world 
of  sense,  so  long  as  that  operation  diverge  not  from 
its  original  ground,  its  effect  must  be,  in  the  strictest 
sense,  natural.  Thus  the  wildest  visions  of  poetry,  the 
unsubstantial  forms  of  painting,  and  the  mysterious 
harmonies  of  music,  that  seem  to  disembody  the  spirit, 
and  make  us  creatures  of  the  air,  —  even  these,  unreal  as 
they  are,  may  all  have  their  foundation  in  immutable 
truth  ;  and  we  may  moreover  know  of  this  truth  by  its 
own  evidence.  Of  this  species  of  evidence  we  shall 
have  occasion  to  speak  hereafter.  But  there  is  another 
kind  of  growth,  which  may  well  be  called  unnatural ; 
we  mean,  of  those  diseased  appetites,  whose  effects  are 
seen  in  the  distorted  forms  of  the  conventional,  having 
no  ground  but  in  weariness  of  the  true ;  and  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  this  morbid  growth  has  its  full  share, 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


11 


inwardly  and  outwardly,  both  of  space  and  importance. 
These,  however,  must  sooner  or  later  end  as  they 
began ;  they  perish  in  the  lie  they  make ;  and  it  were 
well  did  not  other  falsehoods  take  their  places,  to  pro- 
long a  life  whose  only  tenure  is  inconsequential  succes- 
sion, —  in  other  words,  Fashion. 

If  it  be  true,  then,  that  even  the  commonplaces 
of  life  must  all  in  some  degree  partake  of  the  mental, 
there  can  be  but  one  rule  by  which  to  determine  the 
proper  rank  of  any  object  of  pursuit,  and  that  is  by  its 
nearer  or  more  remote  relation  to  our  inward  nature. 
Every  system,  therefore,  which  tends  to  degrade  a  men- 
tal pleasure  to  the  subordinate  or  superfluous,  is  both 
narrow  and  false,  as  virtually  reversing  its  natural 
order. 

It  pleased  our  Creator,  when  he  endowed  us  with 
appetites  and  functions  by  which  to  sustain  the  econo- 
my of  life,  at  the  same  time  to  annex  to  their  exercise 
a  sense  of  pleasure ;  hence  our  daily  food,  and  the  daily 
alternation  of  repose  and  action,  are  ne  less  grateful 
than  imperative.  That  life  may  be  sustained,  and 
most  of  its  functions  performed,  without  any  coincident 
enjoyment,  is  certainly  possible.  Our  food  may  be  dis- 
tasteful, action  painful,  and  rest  unrefreshing ;  and  yet 
we  may  eat,  and  exercise,  and  sleep,  nay,  live  thus  for 
years.  But  this  is  not  our  natural  condition,  and  we 
call  it  disease.  Were  man  a  mere  animal,  the  very  act 
of  living,  in  his  natural  or  healthy  state,  would  be  to 
him  a  continuous  enjoyment.  But  he  is  also  a  moral 
and  an  intellectual  being ;  and,  in  like  manner,  is  the 
healthful  condition  of  these,  the  nobler  parts  of  his 
nature,  attended  with  something  more  than  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  mere  process  of  existence.  To  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  intellectual  faculties  and  moral  attributes 


12 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


the  same  benevolent  law  has  superadded  a  sense  of 
pleasure,  —  of  a  kind,  too,  in  the  same  degree  transcend- 
ing the  highest  bodily  sensation,  as  must  that  which  is 
immortal  transcend  the  perishable.  It  is  not  for  us  to 
ask  why  it  is  so ;  much  less,  because  it  squares  not 
with  the  poor  notion  of  material  usefulness,  to  call  in 
question  a  fact  that  announces  a  nature  to  which  the 
senses  are  but  passing  ministers.  Let  us  rather  receive 
this  ennobling  law,  at  least  without  misgiving,  lest  in 
our  sensuous  wisdom  we  exchange  an  enduring  gift  for 
a  transient  gratification. 

Of  the  peculiar  fruits  of  this  law,  which  we  shall  here 
distinguish  by  the  general  term  mental  pleasures,  it  is 
our  purpose  to  treat  in  the  present  discourse. 

It  is  with  no  assumed  diffidence  that  we  venture  on 
this  subject;  for,  though  we  shall  offer  nothing  not  be- 
lieved to  be  true,  we  are  but  too  sensible  how  small  a 
portion  of  truth  it  is  in  our  power  to  present.  But, 
were  it  far  greater,  and  the  present  writer  of  a  much 
higher  order  of  intellect,  there  would  still  be  sufficient 
cause  for  humility  in  view  of  those  impassable  bounds 
that  have  ever  met  every  self-questioning  of  the  mind. 

But  whilst  the  narrowness  of  human  knowledge  may 
well  preclude  all  self-exaltation,  it  would  be  worse  than 
folly  to  hold  as  naught  the  many  important  truths 
which  have  been  wrought  out  for  us  by  the  mighty  in- 
tellects of  the  past.  If  they  have  left  us  nothing  for 
vainglory,  they  have  left  us  at  least  enough  to  be 
grateful  for.  Nor  is  it  a  little,  that  they  have  taught  us 
to  look  into  those  mysterious  chambers  of  our  being,  — 
the  abode  of  the  spirit ;  and  not  a  little,  indeed,  if  what 
we  are  there  permitted  to  know  shall  have  brought 
with  it  the  conviction,  that  we  are  not  abandoned  to  a 
blind  empiricism,  to  waste  life  in  guesses,  and  to  guess 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


13 


at  last  that  we  have  all  our  lives  been  guessing  wrong, 
—  but,  unapproachable  though  it  be  to  the  subordinate 
Understanding,  that  we  have  still  within  us  an  abiding 
Interpreter,  which  cannot  be  gainsaid,  which  makes  our 
duty  to  God  and  man  clear  as  the  light,  which  ever 
guards  the  fountain  of  all  true  pleasures,  nay,  which 
holds  in  subjection  the  last  high  gift  of  the  Creator, 
that  imaginative  faculty  whereby  his  exalted  creature, 
made  in  his  image,  might  mould  at  will,  from  his 
most  marvellous  world,  yet  unborn  forms,  even  forms 
of  beauty,  grandeur,  and  majesty,  having  all  of  truth 
but  his  own  divine  prerogative,  —  the  mystery  of  Life. 

As  the  greater  part  of  those  Pleasures  which  we  pro- 
pose to  discuss  are  intimately  connected  with  the  ma- 
terial world,  it  may  be  well,  perhaps,  to  assign  some 
reason  for  the  epithet  mental  To  many,  we  know, 
this  will  seem  superfluous ;  but,  when  it  is  remembered 
how  often  we  hear  of  this  and  that  object  delighting 
the  eye,  or  of  certain  sounds  charming  the  ear,  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  show  that  such  expressions  have  really 
no  meaning  except  as  metaphors.  When  the  senses, 
as  the  medium  of  communication,  have  conveyed  to 
the  mind  either  the  sounds  or  images,  their  function 
ceases.  So  also  with  respect  to  the  objects  :  their  end 
is  attained,  at  least  as  to  us,  when  the  sounds  or  im- 
ages are  thus  transmitted,  which,  so  far  as  they  are 
concerned,  must  for  ever  remain  the  same  within  as 
without  the  mind.  For,  where  the  ultimate  end  is  not 
in  mere  bodily  sensation,  neither  the  senses  nor  the 
objects  possess,  of  themselves,  any  productive  power  ; 
of  the  product  that  follows,  the  tertium  aliquid,  whether 
the  pleasure  we  feel  be  in  a  beautiful  animal  or  in  ac- 
cording sounds,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  is  really 
the  cause,  but  simply  the  occasion.  It  is  clear,  then, 
2 


14 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


that  the  effect  realized  supposes  of  necessity  another 
agent,  which  must  therefore  exist  only  in  the  mind. 
But  of  this  hereafter. 

If  the  cause  of  any  emotion,  which  we  seem  to  de- 
rive from  an  outward  object,  were  inherent  exclusive- 
ly in  the  object  itself,  there  could  be  no  failure  in 
any  instance,  except  where  the  organs  of  sense  were 
either  diseased  or  imperfect.  But  it  is  a  matter  of  fact 
that  they  often  do  fail  where  there  is  no  disease  or  or- 
ganic defect.  Many  of  us,  perhaps,  can  call  to  mind 
certain  individuals,  whose  sense  of  hearing  is  as  acute 
as  our  own,  who  yet  can  by  no  possibility  be  made  to 
recognize  the  slightest  relation  between  the  according 
notes  of  the  simplest  melody  ;  and,  though  they  can 
as  readily  as  others  distinguish  the  individual  sounds, 
even  to  the  degrees  of  flatness  and  sharpness,  the  har- 
monic agreement  is  to  them  as  mere  noise.  Let  us 
suppose  ourselves  present  at  a  concert,  in  company 
with  one  such  person  and  another  who  possesses  what 
is  called  musical  sensibility.  How  are  they  affected, 
for  instance,  by  a  piece  of  Mozart's  ?  In  the  sense  of 
hearing  they  are  equal :  look  at  them.  In  the  one  we 
perceive  perplexity,  annoyance,  perhaps  pain ;  he  hears 
nothing  but  a  confused  medley  of  sounds.  In  the 
other,  the  whole  being  is  rapt  in  ecstasy,  the  unutter- 
able pleasure  gushes  from  his  eyes,  he  cannot  articulate 
his  emotion  ;  —  in  the  words  of  one,  who  felt  and  em- 
bodied the  subtile  mystery  in  immortal  verse,  his  very 
soul  seems  "lapped  in  Elysium."  Now,  could  this 
difference  be  possible,  were  the  sole  cause,  strictly 
speaking,  in  mere  matter  ? 

Nor  do  we  contradict  our  position,  when  we  ad- 
mit, in  certain  cases,  —  for  instance,  in  the  producer,  — 
the  necessity  of  a  nicer  organization,  in  order  to  the 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


15 


more  perfect  transmission  of  the  finer  emotions;  inas- 
much as  what  is  to  be  communicated  in  space  and  time 
must  needs  be  by  some  medium  adapted  thereto. 

Such  a  person  as  Paganini,  it  is  said,  was  able  to 
"discourse  most  excellent  music"  on  a  ballad-monger's 
fiddle  ;  yet  will  any  one  question  that  he  needed  an 
instrument  of  somewhat  finer  construction  to  show 
forth  his  full  powers  ?  Nay,  we  might  add,  that  he 
needed  no  less  than  the  most  delicate  Cremona, — some 
instrument,  as  it  were,  articulated  into  humanity,  —  to 
have  inhaled  and  respired  those  attenuated  strains, 
which,  those  who  heard  them  think  it  hardly  extrava- 
gant to  say,  seemed  almost  to  embody  silence. 

Now  this  mechanical  instrument,  by  means  of  which 
such  marvels  were  wrought,  is  but  one  of  the  many 
visible  symbols  of  that  more  subtile  instrument  through 
which  the  mind  acts  when  it  would  manifest  itself.  It 
would  be  too  absurd  to  ask  if  any  one  believed  that  the 
music  we  speak  of  was  created,  as  well  as  conveyed,  by 
the  instrument.  The  violin  of  Paganini  may  still  be 
seen  and  handled  ;  but  the  soul  that  inspired  it  is  buried 
with  its  master. 

If  we  admit  a  distinction  between  mind  and  matter, 
and  the  result  we  speak  of  be  purely  mental,  we  should 
contradict  the  universal  law  of  nature  to  assign  such  a 
product  to  mere  matter,  inasmuch  as  the  natural  law 
forbids  in  the  lower  the  production  of  the  higher.  Take 
an  example  from  one  of  the  lower  forms  of  organic  life, 
—  a  common  vegetable.  Will  any  one  assert  that  the 
surrounding  inorganic  elements  of  air,  earth,  heat,  and 
water  produce  its  peculiar  form?  Though  some,  or 
all,  of  these  may  be  essential  to  its  developement,  they 
are  so  only  as  its  predetermined  correlatives,  without 
which  its  existence  could  not  be  manifested  ;  and  in 


16 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


like  manner  must  the  peculiar  form  of  the  vegetable 
preexist  in  its  life, —  in  its  idea,  —  in  order  to  evolve  by 
these  assimilants  its  own  proper  organism. 

No  possible  modification  in  the  degrees  or  proportion 
of  these  elements  can  change  the  specific  form  of  a 
plant,  —  for  instance,  a  cabbage  into  a  cauliflower ;  it 
must  ever  rem  ain  a  cabbage,  small  or  large,  good  or  bad. 
So,  too,  is  the  external  world  to  the  mind  ;  which  needs, 
also,  as  the  condition  of  its  manifestation,  its  objective 
correlative.  Hence  the  presence  of  some  outward  ob- 
ject, predetermined  to  correspond  to  the  preexisting 
idea  in  its  living  power,  is  essential  to  the  evolution  of 
its  proper  end,  —  the  pleasurable  emotion.  We  beg  it 
may  be  noted  that  we  do  not  say  sensation.  And  hence 
we  hold  ourself  justified  in  speaking  of  such  presence 
as  simply  the  occasion,  or  condition,  and  not,  per  se, 
the  cause.  And  hence,  moreover,  may  be  inferred  the 
absolute  necessity  of  Dual  Forces  in  order  to  the  actual 
existence  of  any  thing.  One  alone,  the  incomprehensi- 
ble Author  of  all  things,  is  self-subsisting  in  his  perfect 
Unity. 

We  shall  now  endeavour  to  establish  the  following 
proposition :  namely,  that  the  Pleasures  in  question 
have  their  true  source  in  One  Intuitive  Universal  Princi- 
ple or  living  Power,  and  that  the  three  Ideas  of  Beauty, 
Truth,  and  Holiness,  which  we  assume  to  represent  the 
perfect  in  the  physical,  intellectual,  and  moral  worlds, 
are  but  the  several  realized  phases  of  this  sovereign  prin- 
ciple, which  we  shall  call  Harmony. 

Our  first  step,  then,  is  to  possess  ourself  of  the  es- 
sential or  distinctive  characteristic  of  these  pleasurable 
emotions.  Apparently,  there  is  nothing  more  simple. 
And  yet  we  are  acquainted  with  no  single  term  that 
shall  fully  express  it.    But  what  every  one  has  more  or 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


17 


less  felt  may  certainly  be  made  intelligible  in  a  more 
extended  form,  and,  we  should  think,  by  any  one  in 
the  slightest  degree  competent  to  self-examination.  Let 
a  person,  then,  be  appealed  to ;  and  let  him  put  the 
question  as  to  what  passes  within  him  when  possessed 
by  these  emotions ;  and  the  spontaneous  feeling  will 
answer  for  us,  that  what  we  call  self  has  no  part  in 
them.  Nay,  we  further  assert,  that,  when  singly  felt, 
that  is,  when  unallied  to  other  emotions  as  modifying 
forces,  they  are  wholly  unmixed  with  any  personal 
considerations ,  or  any  conscious  advantage  to  the  indi- 
vidual 

Nor  is  this  assigning  too  high  a  character  to  the  feel- 
ings in  question  because  awakened  in  so  many  in- 
stances by  the  purely  physical ;  since  their  true  origin 
may  clearly  be  traced  to  a  common  source  with  those 
profounder  emotions  which  we  are  wont  to  ascribe  to 
the  intellectual  and  moral.  Besides,  it  should  be  borne 
in  mind,  that  no  physical  object  can  be  otherwise  to  the 
mind  than  a  mere  occasion ;  its  inward  product,  or  men- 
tal effect,  being  from  another  Power.  The  proper  view 
therefore  is,  not  that  such  alliance  can  ever  degrade  the 
higher  agent,  but  that  its  more  humble  and  material 
assimilant  is  thus  elevated  by  it.  So  that  nothing  in 
nature  should  be  counted  mean,  which  can  thus  be 
exalted ;  but  rather  be  honored,  since  no  object  can  be- 
come so  assimilated  except  by  its  predetermined  cor- 
relation to  our  better  nature. 

Neither  is  it  the  privilege  of  the  exclusive  few,  the 
refined  and  cultivated,  to  feel  them  deeply.  If  we  look 
beyond  ourselves,  even  to  the  promiscuous  multitude, 
the  instance  will  be  rare,  if  existing  at  all,  where  some 
transient  touch  of  these  purer  feelings  has  not  raised 
the  individual  to,  at  least,  a  momentary  exemption  from 
2* 


18 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


the  common  thraldom  of  self.  And  we  greatly  err  if 
their  universality  is  not  solely  limited  by  those  "  shades 
of  the  prison-house,"  which,  in  the  words  of  the  poet, 
too  often  "close  upon  the  growing  boy."  Nay,  so  far 
as  we  have  observed,  we  cannot  admit  it  as  a  question 
whether  any  person  through  a  whole  life  has  always 
been  wholly  insensible,  —  we  will  not  say  (though  well 
we  might)  to  the  good  and  true,  —  but  to  beauty ;  at 
least,  to  some  one  kind,  or  degree,  of  the  beautiful. 
The  most  abject  wretch,  however  animalized  by  vice, 
may  still  be  able  to  recall  the  time  when  a  morning  or 
evening  sky,  a  bird,  a  flower,  or  the  sight  of  some  other 
object  in  nature,  has  given  him  a  pleasure,  which  he 
felt  to  be  distinct  from  that  of  his  animal  appetites,  and 
to  which  he  could  attach  not  a  thought  of  self-interest. 
And,  though  crime  and  misery  may  close  the  heart  for 
years,  and  seal  it  up  for  ever  to  every  redeeming  thought, 
they  cannot  so  shut  out  from  the  memory  these  gleams 
of  innocence;  even  the  brutified  spirit,  the  castaway 
of  his  kind,  has  been  made  to  blush  at  this  enduring 
light;  for  it  tells  him  of  a  truth,  which  might  else 
have  never  been  remembered,  —  that  he  has  once  been 
a  man. 

And  here  may  occur  a  question,  — which  might  well 
be  left  to  the  ultra  advocates  of  the  cut  bono,  —  whether 
a  simple  flower  may  not  sometimes  be  of  higher  use 
than  a  labor-saving  machine. 

As  to  the  objects  whose  effect  on  the  mind  is  here 
discussed,  it  is  needless  to  specify  them ;  they  are,  in 
general,  all  such  as  are  known  to  affect  us  in  the 
manner  described.  The  catalogue  will  vary  both  in 
number  and  kind  with  different  persons,  according  to 
the  degree  of  force  or  developement  in  the  overruling 
Principle. 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


19 


We  proceed,  then,  to  reply  to  such  objections  as  will 
doubtless  be  urged  against  the  characteristic  assumed. 
And  first,  as  regards  the  Beautiful,  we  shall  probably 
be  met  by  the  received  notion,  that  we  experience  in 
Beauty  one  of  the  most  powerful  incentives  to  passion ; 
while  examples  without  number  will  be  brought  in 
array  to  prove  it  also  the  wonder-working  cause  of 
almost  fabulous  transformations,  —  as  giving  energy  to 
the  indolent,  patience  to  the  quick,  perseverance  to  the 
fickle,  even  courage  to  the  timid ;  and,  vice  versa,  as  un- 
manning the  hero,  —  nay,  urging  the  honorable  to  false- 
hood, treason,  and  murder;  in  a  word,  through  the 
mastered,  bewildered,  sophisticated  self,  as  indifferently 
raising  and  sinking  the  fascinated  object  to  the  heights 
and  depths  of  pleasure  and  misery,  of  virtue  and  vice. 

Now,  if  the  Beauty  here  referred  to  is  of  the  human 
being,  we  do  not  gainsay  it;  but  this  is  beauty  in  its 
mixed  mode,  —  not  in  its  high,  passionless  form,  its  sin- 
gleness and  purity.  It  is  not  Beauty  as  it  descended 
from  heaven,  in  the  cloud,  the  rainbow,  the  flower,  the 
bird,  or  in  the  concord  of  sweet  sounds,  that  seem  to 
carry  back  the  soul  to  whence  it  came. 

Could  we  look,  indeed,  at  the  human  form  in  its  sim- 
ple, unallied  physical  structure,  —  on  that,  for  instance, 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  —  and  forget,  or  rather  not  feel, 
that  it  is  other  than  a  form,  there  could  be  but  one 
feeling:  that  nothing  visible  was  ever  so  framed  to 
banish  from  the  soul  every  ignoble  thought,  and  imbue 
it,  as  it  were,  with  primeval  innocence. 

We  are  quite  aware  that  the  doctrine  assumed  in 
our  main  proposition  with  regard  to  Beauty,  as  holding 
exclusive  relation  to  the  Physical,  is  not  very  likely  to 
forestall  favor ;  we  therefore  beg  for  it  only  such  candid 
attention  as,  for  the  reasons  advanced,  it  may  appear  to 
deserve. 


20 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


That  such  effects  as  have  just  been  objected  could 
not  be  from  Beauty  alone,  in  its  pure  and  single  form, 
but  rather  from  its  coincidence  with  some  real  or  sup- 
posed moral  or  intellectual  quality,  or  with  the  animal 
appetites,  seems  to  us  clear ;  as,  were  it  otherwise,  we 
might  infer  the  same  from  a  beautiful  infant,  —  the  very 
thought  of  which  is  revolting  to  common  sense.  In 
such  conjunction,  indeed,  it  cannot  but  have  a  certain 
influence,  but  so  modified  as  often  to  become  a  mere 
accessory,  subordinated  to  the  animal  or  moral  object, 
and  for  the  attainment  of  an  end  not  its  own  ;  in  proof 
of  which,  we  find  it  almost  uniformly  partaking  the 
penalty  imposed  on  its  incidental  associates,  should 
ever  their  desires  result  in  illusion,  —  namely,  in  the 
aversion  that  follows.  But  the  result  of  Beauty  can 
never  be  such ;  when  it  seems  otherwise,  the  effect,  we 
think,  can  readily  be  traced  to  other  causes,  as  we  shall 
presently  endeavour  to  show. 

It  cannot  be  a  matter  of  controversy  whether  Beauty 
is  limited  to  the  human  form ;  the  daily  experience  of 
the  most  ordinary  man  would  answer  No :  he  finds  it  in 
the  woods,  the  fields,  in  plants  and  animals,  nay,  in  a 
thousand  objects,  as  he  looks  upon  nature ;  nor,  though 
indefinitely  diversified,  does  he  hesitate  to  assign  to 
each  the  same  epithet.  And  why  ?  Because  the  feel- 
ings awakened  by  all  are  similar  in  kind,  though  vary- 
ing, doubtless,  by  many  degrees  in  intenseness.  Now 
suppose  he  is  asked  of  what  personal  advantage  is  all 
this  beauty  to  him.  Verily,  he  would  be  puzzled  to 
answer.  It  gives  him  pleasure,  perhaps  great  pleasure. 
And  this  is  all  he  could  say.  But  why  should  the  effect 
be  different,  except  in  degree,  from  the  beauty  of  a 
human  being  ?  We  have  already  the  answer  in  this 
concluding  term.    For  what  is  a  human  being  but  one 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


21 


who  unites  in  himself  a  physical,  intellectual,  and  moral 
nature,  which  cannot  in  one  become  even  an  object  of 
thought  without  at  least  some  obscure  shadowings  of 
its  natural  allies  ?  How,  then,  can  we  separate  that 
which  has  an  exclusive  relation  to  his  physical  form, 
without  some  perception  of  the  moral  and  intellectual 
with  which  it  is  joined  ?  But  how  do  we  know  that 
Beauty  is  limited  to  such  exclusive  relation?  This 
brings  us  to  the  great  problem ;  so  simple  and  easy  of 
solution  in  all  other  cases,  yet  so  intricate  and  appar- 
ently inexplicable  in  man.  In  other  things,  it  would  be 
felt  absurd  to  make  it  a  question,  whether  referring  to 
form,  color,  or  sound.  A  single  instance  will  suffice. 
Let  us  suppose,  then,  an  unfamiliar  object,  whose 
habits,  disposition,  and  so  forth,  are  wholly  unknown, 
for  instance,  a  bird  of  paradise,  to  be  seen  for  the  first 
time  by  twenty  persons,  and  they  all  instantly  call  it 
beautiful ;  —  could  there  be  any  doubt  that  the  pleasure 
it  produced  in  each  was  of  the  same  kind  ?  or  would 
any  one  of  them  ascribe  his  pleasure  to  any  thing  but 
its  form  and  plumage  ?  Concerning  natural  objects, 
and  those  inferior  animals  which  are  not  under  the  in- 
fluence of  domestic  associations,  there  is  little  or  no  dif- 
ference among  men :  if  they  differ,  it  is  only  in  degree, 
according  to  their  sensibility.  Men  do  not  dispute 
about  a  rose.  And  why  ?  Because  there  is  nothing 
beside  the  physical  to  interfere  with  the  impression  it 
was  predetermined  to  make ;  and  the  idea  of  beauty 
is  realized  instantly.  So,  also,  with  respect  to  other 
objects  of  an  opposite  character ;  they  can  speak  with- 
out deliberating,  and  call  them  plain,  homely,  ugly,  and 
so  on,  thus  instinctively  expressing  even  their  degree  of 
remoteness  from  the  condition  of  beauty.  Who  ever 
called  a  pelican  beautiful,  or  even  many  animals  en- 


22 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


deared  to  us  by  their  valuable  qualities,  —  such  as  the 
intelligent  and  docile  elephant,  or  the  affectionate 
orang-outang,  or  the  faithful  mastiff?  Nay,  we  may 
run  through  a  long  list  of  most  useful  and  amiable 
creatures,  that  could  not,  under  any  circumstances,  give 
birth  to  an  emotion  corresponding  to  that  which  we 
ascribe  to  the  beautiful. 

But  there  is  scarcely  a  subject  on  which  mankind  are 
wider  at  variance,  than  on  the  beauty  of  their  own  spe- 
cies, —  some  preferring  this,  and  others  that,  particular 
conformation ;  which  can  only  be  accounted  for  on  the 
supposition  of  some  predominant  expression,  either 
moral,  intellectual,  or  sensual,  with  which  they  are  in 
sympathy,  or  else  the  reverse.  While  some  will  task 
their  memory,  and  resort  to  the  schools,  for  their  sup- 
posed infallible  rules ;  —  forgetting,  meanwhile,  that  ulti- 
mate tribunal  to  which  their  canon  must  itself  appeal, 
the  ever-living  principle  which  first  evolved  its  truth, 
and  which  now,  as  then,  is  not  to  be  reasoned  about, 
but  felt  It  need  not  be  added  how  fruitful  of  blunders 
is  this  mechanical  ground. 

Now  we  venture  to  assert  that  no  mistake  was  ever 
made,  even  in  a  single  glance,  concerning  any  natural 
object,  not  disfigured  by  human  caprice,  or  which  the 
eye  had  not  been  trained  to  look  at  through  some  con- 
ventional medium.  Under  this  latter  circumstance, 
there  are  doubtless  many  things  in  nature  which  affect 
men  very  differently ;  and  more  especially  such  as,  from 
their  familiar  nearness,  have  come  under  the  influence 
of  opinion,  and  been  incrusted,  as  it  were,  by  the  suc- 
cessive deposits  of  many  generations.  But  of  the  vast 
and  various  multitude  of  objects  which  have  thus  been 
forced  from  their  original  state,  there  is  perhaps  no 
one  which  has  undergone  so  many  and  such  strange 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


23 


disfigurements  as  the  human  form ;  or  in  relation  to 
which  our  "  ideas,"  as  we  are  pleased  to  call  them,  but 
in  truth  our  opinions,  have  been  so  fluctuating.  If  an 
Idea,  indeed,  had  any  thing  to  do  with  Fashion,  we 
should  call  many  things  monstrous  to  which  custom 
has  reconciled  us.  Let  us  suppose  a  case,  by  way 
of  illustration.  A  gentleman  and  lady,  from  one  of 
our  fashionable  cities,  are  making  a  tour  on  the  borders 
of  some  of  our  new  settlements  in  the  "West.  They  are 
standing  on  the  edge  of  a  forest,  perhaps  admiring 
the  grandeur  of  nature  ;  perhaps,  also,  they  are  lovers, 
and  sharing  with  nature  their  admiration  for  each  other, 
whose  personal  charms  are  set  off  to  the  utmost,  ac- 
cording to  the  most  approved  notions,  by  the  taste  and 
elegance  of  their  dress.  Then  suppose  an  Indian  hun- 
ter, who  had  never  seen  one  of  our  civilized  world,  or 
heard  of  our  costume,  coming  suddenly  upon  them, 
their  faces  being  turned  from  him.  Would  it  be  pos- 
sible for  him  to  imagine  what  kind  of  animals  they 
were  ?  We  think  not ;  and  least  of  all,  that  he  would 
suppose  them  to  be  of  his  own  species.  This  is  no 
improbable  case  ;  and  we  very  much  fear,  should  it  ever 
occur,  that  the  unrefined  savage  would  go  home  with 
an  impression  not  very  flattering  either  to  the  milliner 
or  the  tailor. 

That,  under  such  disguises,  we  should  consider  human 
beauty  as  a  kind  of  enigma,  or  a  thing  to  dispute  about, 
is  not  surprising ;  nor  even  that  we  should  often  differ 
from  ourselves,  when  so  much  of  the  outward  man  is 
thus  made  to  depend  on  the  shifting  humors  of  some 
paramount  Petronius  of  the  shears.  But,  admitting  it 
to  be  an  easy  matter  to  divest  the  form,  or,  what  is  still 
more  important,  our  own  minds,  of  every  thing  con- 
ventional, there  is  the  still  greater  obstacle  to  any  true 


24 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


effect  from  the  person  alone,  in  that  moral  admixture, 
already  mentioned,  which,  more  or  less,  must  color  the 
most  of  our  impressions  from  every  individual.  Is 
there  not,  then,  sufficient  ground  for  at  least  a  doubt  if, 
excepting  idiots,  there  is  one  human  being  in  whom  the 
purely  physical  is  at  all  times  the  sole  agent  ?  We  do 
not  say  that  it  does  not  generally  predominate.  But,  in 
a  compound  being  like  man,  it  seems  next  to  impossi- 
ble that  the  nature  within  should  not  at  times,  in  some 
degree,  transpire  through  the  most  rigid  texture  of  the 
outward  form.  We  may  not,  indeed,  always  read 
aright  the  character  thus  obscurely  indexed,  or  even  be 
able  to  guess  at  it,  one  way  or  the  other ;  still,  it  will 
affect  us;  nay,  most  so,  perhaps,  when  most  indefi- 
nite. Every  man  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  physiogno- 
mist :  we  do  not  mean,  according  to  the  common  ac- 
ceptation, that  he  is  an  interpreter  of  lines  and  quan- 
tities, which  may  be  reduced  to  rules  ;  but  that  he  is 
born  one,  judging,  not  by  any  conscious  rule,  but  by  an 
instinct,  which  he  can  neither  explain  nor  comprehend, 
and  which  compels  him  to  sit  in  judgment,  whether  he 
will  or  no.  How  else  can  we  account  for  those  instan- 
taneous sympathies  and  antipathies  towards  an  utter 
stranger  ? 

Now  this  moral  influence  has  a  twofold  source,  one 
in  the  object,  and  another  in  ourselves  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to 
determine  which  is  the  stronger  as  a  counteracting 
force.  Hitherto  we  have  considered  only  the  former ; 
we  now  proceed  with  a  few  remarks  upon  the  latter. 

Will  any  man  say,  that  he  is  wholly  without  some 
natural  or  acquired  bias  ?  This  is  the  source  of  the 
counteracting  influence  which  we  speak  of  in  ourselves; 
but  which,  like  many  other  of  the  secret  springs,  both 
of  thought  and  feeling,  few  men  think  of.    It  is  never- 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


25 


theless  one  which,  on  this  particular  subject,  is  scarcely 
ever  inactive  ;  and  according  to  the  bias  will  be  our  im- 
pressions, whether  we  be  intellectual  or  sensual,  coldly 
speculative  or  ardently  imaginative.  We  do  not  mean 
that  it  is  always  called  forth  by  every  thing  we  ap- 
proach ;  we  speak  only  of  its  usual  activity  between 
man  and  man;  for  there  seems  to  be  a  mysterious 
something  in  our  nature,  that,  in  spite  of  our  wishes, 
will  rarely  allow  of  an  absolute  indifference  towards 
any  of  the  species  ;  some  effect,  however  slight,  even  as 
that  of  the  air  which  we  unconsciously  inhale  and  again 
respire,  must  follow,  whether  directly  from  the  object  or 
reacting  from  ourselves.  Nay,  so  strong  is  the  law, 
whether  in  attraction  or  repulsion,  that  we  cannot  resist 
it  even  in  relation  to  those  human  shadows  projected 
on  air  by  the  mere  imagination ;  for  we  feel  it  in  art 
only  less  than  in  nature,  provided,  however,  that  the 
imagined  being  possess  but  the  indication  of  a  human 
soul :  yet  not  so  is  it,  if  presenting  only  the  outward 
form,  since  a  mere  form  can  in  itself  have  no  affinity 
with  either  the  heart  or  intellect.  And  here  we  would 
ask,  Does  not  this  striking  exception  in  the  present  ar- 
gument cast  back,  as  it  were,  a  confirmatory  reflection  ? 

We  have  often  thought,  that  the  power  of  the  mere 
form  could  not  be  more  strongly  exemplified  than  at  a 
common  paint-shop.  Among  the  annual  importations 
from  the  various  marts  of  Europe,  how  many  beautiful 
faces,  without  an  atom  of  meaning,  attract  the  passen- 
gers,—  stopping  high  and  low,  people  of  all  descriptions, 
and  actually  giving  pleasure,  if  not  to  every  one,  at 
least  to  the  majority;  and  very  justly,  for  they  have 
beauty,  and  nothing'  else.  But  let  another  artist,  some 
man  of  genius,  copy  the  same  faces,  and  add  character, — 
breathe  into  them  souls  :  from  that  moment  the  passers- 
3 


26 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


by  would  see  as  if  with  other  eyes ;  the  affections  and 
the  imagination  then  become  the  spectators ;  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  quickness  or  dulness,  the  vulgarity  or 
refinement,  of  these,  would  be  the  impression.  Thus 
a  coarse  mind  may  feel  the  beauty  in  the  hard,  soul- 
less forms  of  Van  der  Werf,  yet  turn  away  with  apathy 
from  the  sanctified  loveliness  of  a  Madonna  by  Raf- 
faelle. 

But  to  return  to  the  individual  bias,  which  is  con- 
tinually inclining  to,  or  repelling  "What  is  more  com- 
mon, especially  with  women,  than  a  high  admiration 
of  a  plain  person,  if  connected  with  wit,  or  a  pleasing 
address  ?  Can  we  have  a  stronger  case  in  point  than 
that  of  the  celebrated  Wilkes,  one  of  the  ugliest,  yet 
one  of  the  most  admired  men  of  his  time  ?  Even  his 
own  sex,  blinded  no  doubt  by  their  sympathetic  bias, 
could  see  no  fault  in  him,  either  in  mind  or  person ;  for, 
when  it  was  objected  to  the  latter,  that  "  he  squinted 
confoundedly,"  the  reply  was,  "  No,  Sir,  not  more  than  a 
gentleman  ought  to  squint." 

Of  the  tendency  to  particular  pursuits,  — to  art,  sci- 
ence, or  any  particular  course  of  life,  —  we  do  not 
speak ;  the  bias  we  allude  to  is  in  the  more  personal  dis- 
position of  the  man,  —  in  that  which  gives  atone  to  his 
internal  character;  nor  is  it  material  of  what  proportions 
compounded,  of  the  affections,  or  the  intellect,  or  the 
senses, — whether  of  some  only,  or  the  whole  ;  that  these 
form  the  ground  of  every  man's  bias  is  no  less  certain, 
than  the  fact  that  there  is  scarcely  any  secret  which  men 
are  in  the  habit  of  guarding  with  such  sedulous  care. 
Nay,  it  would  seem  as  if  every  one  were  impelled  to  it 
by  some  superstitious  instinct,  that  every  one  might 
have  it  to  say  to  himself,  There  is  one  thing  in  me  which 
is  all  my  ovm.    Be  this  as  it  may,  there  are  few  things 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


27 


more  hazardous  than  to  pronounce  with  confidence  on 
any  man's  bias.  Indeed,  most  men  would  be  puzzled 
to  name  it  to  themselves ;  but  its  existence  in  them 
is  not  the  less  a  fact,  because  the  form  assumed  may 
be  so  mixed  and  complicated  as  to  be  utterly  undefina- 
ble.  It  is  enough,  however,  that  every  one  feels,  and  is 
more  or  less  led  by  it,  whether  definite  or  not. 

This  being  the  case,  how  is  it  possible  that  it  should 
not  in  some  degree  affect  our  feelings  towards  every 
one  we  meet,  —  that  it  should  not  leave  some  speck  of 
leaven  on  each  impression,  which  shall  impregnate  it 
with  something  that  we  admire  and  love,  or  else  with 
that  which  we  hate  and  despise  ? 

And  what  is  the  most  beautiful  or  the  most  ungainly 
form  before  a  sorcerer  like  this,  who  can  endow  a  fair 
simpleton  with  the  rarest  intellect,  or  transform,  by  a 
glance,  the  intellectual,  noble-hearted  dwarf  to  an  angel 
of  light  ?  These,  of  course,  are  extreme  cases.  But  if 
true  in  these,  as  we  have  reason  to  believe,  how  for- 
midable the  power ! 

But  though,  as  before  observed,  we  may  not  read 
this  secret  with  precision,  it  is  sometimes  possible  to 
make  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  prevailing  tendency  in  cer- 
tain individuals.  Perhaps  the  most  obvious  cases  are 
among  the  sanguine  and  imaginative ;  and  the  guess 
would  be,  that  a  beautiful  person  would  presently  be 
enriched  with  all  possible  virtues,  while  the  colder 
speculatist  would  only  see  in  it,  not  what  it  possessed, 
but  the  mind  that  it  wanted.  Now  it  would  be  curious 
to  imagine  (and  the  case  is  not  impossible)  how  the 
eyes  of  each  might  be  opened,  with  the  probable  con- 
sequence, how  each  might  feel  when  his  eyes  were 
opened,  and  the  object  was  seen  as  it  really  is.  Some 
untoward  circumstance  comes  unawares  on  the  perfect 


28 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


creature :  a  burst  of  temper  knits  the  brow,  inflames  the 
eye,  inflates  the  nostril,  gnashes  the  teeth,  and  converts 
the  angel  into  a  storming  fury.  What  then  becomes 
of  the  visionary  virtues  ?  They  have  passed  into  air, 
and  taken  with  them,  also,  what  was  the  fair  creature's 
right,  —  her  very  beauty.  Yet  a  different  change  takes 
place  with  the  dry  man  of  intellect.  The  mindless 
object  has  taken  shame  of  her  ignorance ;  she  begins  to 
cultivate  her  powers,  which  are  gradually  developed 
until  they  expand  and  brighten  ;  they  inform  her  fea- 
tures, so  that  no  one  can  look  upon  them  without  seeing 
the  evidence  of  no  common  intellect :  the  dry  man,  at 
last,  is  struck  with  their  superior  intelligence,  and 
what  more  surprises  him  is  the  grace  and  beauty, 
which,  for  the  first  time,  they  reveal  to  his  eyes.  The 
learned  dust  which  had  so  long  buried  his  heart  is 
quickly  brushed  away,  and  he  weds  the  embodied  mind. 
What  third  change  may  follow,  it  is  not  to  our  purpose 
to  foresee. 

Has  human  beauty,  then,  no  power  ?  When  united 
with  virtue  and  intellect,  we  might  almost  answer,  — 
All  power.  It  is  the  embodied  harmony  of  the  true 
poet ;  his  visible  Muse ;  the  guardian  angel  of  his  better 
nature ;  the  inspiring  sibyl  of  his  best  affections,  draw- 
ing him  to  her  with  a  purifying  charm,  from  the  selfish- 
ness of  the  world,  from  poverty  and  neglect,  from  the  low 
and  base,  nay,  from  his  own  frailty  or  vices :  —  for  he 
cannot  approach  her  with  unhallowed  thoughts,  whom 
the  unlettered  and  ignorant  look  up  to  with  awe,  as  to 
one  of  a  race  above  them ;  before  whom  the  wisest  and 
best  bow  down  without  abasement,  and  would  bow 
in  idolatry  but  for  a  higher  reverence.  No !  there  is 
no  power  like  this  of  mortal  birth.  But  against  the 
antagonist  moral,  the  human  beauty  of  itself  has  no 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


29 


power,  no  self-sustaining  life.  While  it  panders  to  evil 
desires,  then,  indeed,  there  are  few  things  may  par- 
allel its  fearful  might.  But  the  unholy  alliance  must  at 
last  have  an  end.  Look  at  it  then,  when  the  beautiful 
serpent  has  cast  her  slough. 

Let  us  turn  to  it  for  a  moment,  and  behold  it  in 
league  with  elegant  accomplishments  and  a  subtile  in- 
tellect: how  complete  its  triumph!  If  ever  the  soul 
may  be  said  to  be  intoxicated,  it  is  then,  when  it  feels 
the  full  power  of  a  beautiful,  bad  woman.  The  fabled 
enchantments  of  the  East  are  less  strange  and  wonder- 
working than  the  marvellous  changes  which  her  spell 
has  wrought.  For  a  time  every  thought  seems  bound 
to  her  will;  the  eternal  eye  of  the  conscience  closes  be- 
fore her  ;  the  everlasting  truths  of  right  and  wrong  sleep 
at  her  bidding;  nay,  things  most  gross  and  abhorred 
become  suddenly  invested  with  a  seeming  purity :  till 
the  whole  mind  is  hers,  and  the  bewildered  victim, 
drunk  with  her  charms,  calls  evil  good.  Then,  what  may 
follow  ?  Read  the  annals  of  crime  ;  it  will  tell  us  what 
follows  the  broken  spell,  —  broken  by  the  first  degrad- 
ing theft,  the  first  stroke  of  the  dagger,  or  the  first  drop 
of  poison.  The  felon's  eye  turns  upon  the  beautiful 
sorceress  with  loathing  and  abhorrence  :  an  asp,  a  toad, 
is  not  more  hateful !  The  story  of  Milwood  has  many 
counterparts. 

But,  although  Beauty  cannot  sustain  itself  perma- 
nently against  what  is  morally  bad,  and  has  no  direct 
power  of  producing  good,  it  yet  may,  and  often  does, 
when  unobstructed,  through  its  unimpassioned  purity, 
predispose  to  the  good,  except,  perhaps,  in  natures 
grossly  depraved ;  inasmuch  as  all  affinities  to  the  pure 
are  so  many  reproaches  to  the  vitiated  mind,  unless 
convertible  to  some  selfish  end.  Witness  the  beautiful 
3* 


30 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


wife,  wedded  for  what  is  misnamed  love,  yet  becoming 
the  scorn  of  a  brutal  husband,  —  the  more  bitter,  per- 
haps, if  she  be  also  good.  But,  aside  from  those  coun- 
teracting causes  so  often  mentioned,  it  is  as  we  have 
said:  we  are  predisposed  to  feel  kindly,  and  to  think 
purely,  of  every  beautiful  object,  until  we  have  reason  to 
think  otherwise ;  and  according  to  our  own  hearts  will 
be  our  thoughts. 

We  are  aware  of  but  one  other  objection  which  has 
not  been  noticed,  and  which  might  be  made  to  the 
intuitive  nature  of  the  Idea.  How  is  it,  we  may  be 
asked,  that  artists,  who  are  supposed,  from  their  early 
discipline,  to  have  overcome  all  conventional  bias,  and 
also  to  have  acquired  the  more  difficult  power  of  ana- 
lyzing their  models,  so  as  to  contemplate  them  in  their 
separate  elements,  have  so  often  varied  as  to  their  ideas 
of  Beauty  ?  Whether  artists  have  really  the  power  thus 
ascribed  to  them,  we  shall  not  here  inquire ;  it  is  no 
doubt,  if  possible,  their  business  to  acquire  it.  But,  ad- 
mitting it  as  true,  we  deny  the  position :  they  do  not 
change  their  ideas.  They  can  have  but  one  Idea  of 
Beauty,  inasmuch  as  that  Idea  is  but  a  specific  phase  of 
one  immutable  Principle, — if  there  be  such  a  principle; 
as  we  shall  hereafter  endeavour  to  show.  Nor  can 
they  have  of  it  any  essentially  different,  much  less  oppo- 
site, conceptions :  but  their  apprehension  of  it  may  un- 
dergo many  apparent  changes,  which,  nevertheless,  are 
but  the  various  degrees  that  only  mark  a  fuller  concep- 
tion ;  as  their  more  extended  acquaintance  with  the 
higher  outward  assimilants  of  Beauty  brings  them,  of 
course,  nearer  to  a  perfect  realization  of  the  preexisting 
Idea.  By  perfect,  here,  we  mean  only  the  nearest  ap- 
proximation by  man.  And  we  appeal  to  every  artist, 
competent  to  answer,  if  it  be  not  so.    Does  he  ever 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


31 


descend  from  a  higher  assimilant  to  a  lower  ?  Suppose 
him  to  have  been  born  in  Italy ;  would  he  go  to  Hol- 
land to  realize  his  Idea  ?  But  many  a  Dutchman  has 
sought  in  Italy  what  he  could  not  find  in  his  own 
country.  We  do  not  by  this  intend  any  reflection  on 
the  latter,  —  a  country  so  fruitful  of  genius ;  it  is  only 
saying  that  the  human  form  in  Italy  is  from  a  finer 
mould.  Then,  what  directs  the  artist  from  one  object 
to  another,  and  determines  him  which  to  choose,  if  he 
has  not  the  guide  within  him  ?  And  why  else  should 
all  nations  instinctively  bow  before  the  superior  forms 
of  Greece  ? 

We  add  but  one  remark.  Supposing  the  artist  to 
be  wholly  freed  from  all  modifying  biases,  such  is  sel- 
dom the  case  with  those  who  criticize  his  work,  — 
especially  those  who  would  show  their  superiority  by 
detecting  faults,  and  who  frequently  condemn  the 
painter  simply  for  not  expressing  what  he  never  aimed 
at  As  to  some,  they  are  never  content  if  they  do  not 
find  beauty,  whatever  the  subject,  though  it  may  neu- 
tralize the  character,  if  not  render  it  ridiculous.  Were 
RafFaelle,  who  seldom  sought  the  purely  beautiful,  to  be 
judged  by  the  want  of  it,  he  would  fall  below  Guido. 
But  his  object  was  much  higher,  — in  the  intellect  and 
the  affections ;  it  was  the  human  being  in  his  endless 
inflections  of  thought  and  passion,  in  which  there  is 
little  probability  he  will  ever  be  approached.  Yet  false 
criticism  has  been  as  prodigal  to  him  in  the  ascription 
of  beauty,  as  parsimonious  and  unjust  to  many  others. 

In  conclusion,  may  there  not  be,  in  the  difficulty  we 
have  thus  endeavoured  to  solve,  a  probable  significance 
of  the  responsible,  as  well  as  distinct,  position  which 
the  Human  being  holds  in  the  world  of  life  ?  Are  there 
no  shadowings,  in  that  reciprocal  influence  between 


32 


LECTURES  ON  ART, 


soul  and  soul,  of  some  mysterious  chain  which  links 
together  the  human  family  in  its  two  extremes,  giving 
to  the  very  lowest  an  indefeasible  claim  on  the  highest, 
so  that  we  cannot  be  independent  if  we  would,  or  indif- 
ferent even  to  the  very  meanest,  without  violation  of  an 
imperative  law  of  our  nature  ?  And  does  it  not  at 
least  hint  of  duties  and  affections  towards  the  most  de- 
formed in  body,  the  most  depraved  in  mind,  —  of  inter- 
minable consequences?  If  man  were  a  mere  animal, 
though  the  highest  animal,  could  these  inscrutable  in- 
fluences affect  us  as  they  do  ?  Would  not  the  animal 
appetites  be  our  true  and  sole  end  ?  What  even  would 
Beauty  be  to  the  sated  appetite  ?  If  it  did  not,  as  in 
the  last  instance,  of  the  brutal  husband,  become  an 
object  of  scorn, — which  it  could  not  be,  from  the  neces- 
sary absence  of  moral  obliquity,  —  would  it  be  better 
than  a  picked  bone  to  a  gorged  dog  ?  Least  of  all 
could  it  resemble  the  visible  sign  of  that  pure  idea,  in 
which  so  many  lofty  minds  have  recognized  the  type  of 
a  far  higher  love  than  that  of  earth,  which  the  soul 
shall  know,  when,  in  a  better  world,  she  shall  realize  the 
ultimate  reunion  of  Beauty  with  the  coeternal  forms  of 
Truth  and  Holiness. 

We  will  now  apply  the  characteristic  assumed  to  the 
second  leading  Idea,  namely,  to  Truth.  In  the  first 
place,  we  take  it  for  granted,  that  no  one  will  deny  to 
the  perception  of  truth  some  positive  pleasure ;  no  one, 
at  least,  who  is  not  at  the  same  time  prepared  to  contra- 
dict the  general  sense  of  mankind,  nay,  we  will  add, 
their  universal  experience.  The  moment  we  begin  to 
think,  we  begin  to  acquire,  whether  it  be  in  trifles  or 
otherwise,  some  kind  of  knowledge ;  and  of  two  things 
presented  to  our  notice,  supposing  one  to  be  true  and 
the  other  false,  no  one  ever  knowingly,  and  for  its  own 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


33 


sake,  chooses  the  false  :  whatever  he  may  do  in  after 
life,  for  some  selfish  purpose,  he  cannot  do  so  in  child- 
hood, where  there  is  no  such  motive,  without  violence 
to  his  nature.  And  here  we  are  supposing  the  under- 
standing, with  its  triumphant  pride  and  subtilty,  out  of 
the  question,  and  the  child  making  his  choice  under  the 
spontaneous  sense  of  the  true  and  the  false.  For,  were 
it  otherwise,  and  the  choice  indifferent,  what  possible 
foundation  for  the  commonest  acts  of  life,  even  as  it 
respects  himself,  would  there  be  to  him  who  should  sow 
with  lies  the  very  soil  of  his  growing  nature.  It  is  time 
enough  in  manhood  to  begin  to  lie  to  one's  self ;  but  a 
self-lying  youth  can  have  no  proper  self  to  rest  on,  at 
any  period.  So  that  the  greatest  liar,  even  Ferdinand 
Mendez  Pinto,  must  have  loved  the  truth, —  at  least  at 
one  time  of  his  life.  We  say  loved;  for  a  voluntary 
choice  implies  of  necessity  some  degree  of  pleasure  in 
the  choosing,  however  faint  the  emotion  or  insignificant 
the  object.  It  is,  therefore,  cceteris  paribus,  not  only 
necessary,  but  natural,  to  find  pleasure  in  truth. 

Now  the  question  is,  whether  the  pleasurable  emo- 
tion, which  is,  so  to  speak,  the  indigenous  growth  of 
Truth,  can  in  any  case  be  free  of  self,  or  some  personal 
gratification.  To  this,  we  apprehend,  there  will  be  no 
lack  of  answer.  Nay,  the  answer  has  already  been 
given  from  the  dark  antiquity  of  ages,  that  even  for  her 
own  exceeding  loveliness  has  Truth  been  canonized.  If 
there  was  any  thing  of  self  in  the  Eureka  of  Pythagoras, 
there  was  not  in  the  acclamations  of  his  country  who 
rejoiced  with  him.  But  we  may  doubt  the  feeling,  if 
applied  to  him.  If  wealth  or  fame  has  sometimes 
followed  in  the  track  of  Genius,  it  has  followed  as  an 
accident,  but  never  preceded,  as  the  efficient  conductor 
to  any  great  discovery.    For  what  is  Genius  but  the 


34 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


prophetic  revealer  of  the  unseen  True,  that  can  neither 
be  purchased  nor  bribed  into  light  ?  If  it  come,  then,  at 
all,  it  must  needs  be  evoked  by  a  kindred  love  as  pure 
as  itself.  Shall  we  appeal  to  the  artist  ?  If  he  deserve 
the  name,  he  will  disdain  the  imputation  that  either 
wealth  or  fame  has  ever  aided  at  the  birth  of  his  ideal 
offspring :  it  was  Truth  that  smiled  upon  him,  that  made 
light  his  travail,  that  blessed  their  birth,  and,  by  her  fond 
recognition,  imparted  to  his  breast  her  own  most  pure, 
unimpassioned  emotion.  But,  whatever  mixed  feeling, 
through  the  infirmity  of  the  agent,  may  have  influenced 
the  artist,  whether  poet  or  painter,  there  can  be  but  one 
feeling  in  the  reader  or  spectator. 

Indeed,  so  imperishable  is  this  property  of  Truth,  that 
it  seems  to  lose  nothing  of  its  power,  even  when  caus- 
ing itself  to  be  reflected  from  things  that  in  themselves 
have,  properly  speaking,  no  truth.  Of  this  we  have 
abundant  examples  in  some  of  the  Dutch  pictures, 
where  the  principal  object  is  simply  a  dish  of  oys- 
ters or  a  pickled  herring.  We  remember  a  picture  of 
this  kind,  consisting  solely  of  these  very  objects,  from 
which  we  experienced  a  pleasure  almost  exquisite.  And 
we  would  here  remark,  that  the  appetite  then  was  in  no 
way  concerned.  The  pleasure,  therefore,  must  have 
been  from  the  imitated  truth.  It  is  certainly  a  curious 
question  why  this  should  be,  while  the  things  themselves, 
that  is,  the  actual  objects,  should  produce  no  such  effect. 
And  it  seems  to  be  because,  in  the  latter  case,  there  was 
no  truth  involved.  The  real  oysters,  &c,  were  indeed 
so  far  true  as  they  were  actual  objects,  but  they  did  not 
contain  a  truth  in  relation  to  any  thing.  Whereas,  in 
the  pictured  oysters,  their  relation  to  the  actual  was 
shown  and  verified  in  the  mutual  resemblance. 

If  this  be  true,  as  we  doubt  not,  we  have  at  least 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


35 


one  evidence,  where  it  might  not  be  looked  for,  that 
there  is  that  in  Truth  which  is  satisfying  of  itself.  But 
a  stronger  testimony  may  still  be  found  where,  from 
all  a  priori  reasoning,  we  might  expect,  if  not  positive 
pain,  at  least  no  pleasure ;  and  that  is,  where  we  find 
it  united  with  human  suffering,  as  in  the  deep  scenes  of 
tragedy.  Now  it  cannot  be  doubted,  that  some  of  our 
most  refined  pleasures  are  often  derived  from  this 
source,  and  from  scenes  that  in  nature  we  could  not 
look  upon.  And  why  is  this,  but  for  the  reason  assign- 
ed in  the  preceding  instance  of  a  still-life  picture  ?  the 
only  difference  being,  that  the  latter  is  addressed  to  the 
senses,  and  the  former  to  the  heart  and  intellect :  which 
difference,  however,  well  accounts  for  their  vast  disparity 
of  effect.  But  may  not  these  tragic  pleasures  have  their 
source  in  sympathy  alone  ?  We  answer,  No.  For  who 
ever  felt  it  in  watching  the  progress  of  actual  villany  or 
the  betrayal  of  innocence,  or  in  being  an  eyewitness  of 
murder  ?  Now,  though  we  revolt  at  these  and  the  like 
atrocities  in  actual  life,  it  would  be  both  new  and  false 
to  assert  that  they  have  no  attraction  in  Art. 

Nor  do  we  believe  that  this  acknowledged  interest  can 
well  be  traced  to  any  other  source  than  the  one  assumed ; 
namely,  to  the  truth  of  relation.  And  in  this  capacity 
does  Truth  stand  to  the  Imagination,  which  is  the  prop- 
er medium  through  which  the  artist,  whether  poet  or 
painter,  projects  his  scenes. 

The  seat  of  interest  here,  then,  being  in  the  imagina- 
tion, it  is  precisely  on  that  account,  and  because  it  can- 
not be  brought  home  to  self,  that  the  pleasure  ensues ; 
which  is  plainly,  therefore,  derived  from  its  verisimili- 
tude to  the  actual,  and,  though  together  with  its  appro- 
priate excitement,  yet  without  its  imperative  condition, 
namely,  its  call  of  life  on  the  living  affections. 


36 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


The  proper  word  here  is  interest,  not  sympathy,  for 
sympathy  with  actual  suffering,  be  the  object  good  or 
bad,  is  in  its  nature  painful ;  an  obvious  reason  why 
so  few  in  the  more  prosaic  world  have  the  virtue  to 
seek  it. 

But  is  it  not  the  business  of  the  artist  to  touch  the 
heart  ?  True,  —  and  it  is  his  high  privilege,  as  its  liege- 
lord,  to  sound  its  very  depths ;  nay,  from  its  lowest  deep 
to  touch  alike  its  loftiest  breathing  pinnacle.  Yet  he 
may  not  even  approach  it,  except  through  the  transform- 
ing atmosphere  of  the  imagination,  where  alone  the 
saddest  notes  of  woe,  even  the  appalling  shriek  of  de- 
spair, are  softened,  as  it  were,  by  the  tempering  dews  of 
this  visionary  region,  ere  they  fall  upon  the  heart.  Else 
how  could  we  stand  the  smothered  moan  of  Desde- 
mona,  or  the  fiendish  adjuration  of  Lady  Macbeth, — 
more  frightful  even  than  the  after-deed  of  her  husband, 
—  or  look  upon  the  agony  of  the  wretched  Judas,  in 
the  terrible  picture  of  Rembrandt,  when  he  returns  the 
purchase  of  blood  to  the  impenetrable  Sanhedrim  ? 
Ay,  how  could  we  ever  stand  these  but  for  that  ideal 
panoply  through  which  we  feel  only  their  modified 
vibrations  ? 

Let  the  imitation,  or  rather  copy,  be  so  close  as  to 
trench  on  deception,  the  effect  will  be  far  different ;  for, 
the  condition  of  relation  being  thus  virtually  lost,  the 
copy  becomes  as  the  original,  —  circumscribed  by  its 
own  qualities,  repulsive  or  attractive,  as  the  case  may 
be.  I  remember  a  striking  instance  of  this  in  a  cele- 
brated actress,  whose  copies  of  actual  suffering  were 
so  painfully  accurate,  that  I  was  forced  to  turn  away 
from  the  scene,  unable  to  endure  it ;  her  scream  of  ago- 
ny in  Belvidera  seemed  to  ring  in  my  ears  for  hours 
after.    Not  so  was  it  with  the  great  Mrs.  Siddons,  who 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


37 


moved  not  a  step  but  in  a  poetic  atmosphere,  through 
which  the  fiercest  passions  seemed  rather  to  loom  like 
distant  mountains  when  first  descried  at  sea,  —  massive 
and  solid,  yet  resting  on  air. 

It  would  appear,  then,  that  there  is  something  in  truth, 
though  but  seen  in  the  dim  shadow  of  relation,  that  en- 
forces interest,  —  and,  so  it  be  without  pain,  at  least 
some  degree  of  pleasure ;  which,  however  slight,  is  not 
unimportant,  as  presenting  an  impassable  barrier  to  the 
mere  animal.  We  must  not,  however,  be  understood 
as  claiming  for  this  Relative  Truth  the  power  of  excit- 
ing a  pleasurable  interest  in  all  possible  cases ;  there  are 
exceptions,  as  in  the  horrible,  the  loathsome,  &c,  which 
under  no  condition  can  be  otherwise  than  revolting.  It 
is  enough  for  our  purpose,  to  have  shown  that  its  effect 
is  in  most  cases  similar  to  that  we  have  ascribed  to 
Truth  absolute. 

But  objections  are  the  natural  adversaries  of  every 
adventurer :  there  is  one  in  our  path  which  we  soon 
descried  at  our  first  setting  out.  And  we  find  it 
especially  opposed  to  the  assertion  respecting  children; 
namely,  that  between  two  things,  where  there  is  no 
personal  advantage  to  bias  the  decision,  they  will  always 
choose  that  which  seems  to  them  true,  rather  than  the 
other  which  appears  false.  To  this  is  opposed  the  no- 
torious fact  of  the  remarkable  propensity  which  chil- 
dren have  to  lying.  This  is  readily  admitted ;  but  it 
does  not  meet  us,  unless  it  can  be  shown  that  they  have 
not  in  the  act  of  lying  an  eye  to  its  reward,  —  setting 
aside  any  outward  advantage,  —  in  the  shape  of  self- 
complacent  thought  at  their  superior  wit  or  ingenuity. 
Now  it  is  equally  notorious,  that  such  secret  triumph 
will  often  betray  itself  by  a  smile,  or  wink,  or  some 
other  sign  from  the  chuckling  urchin,  which  proves  any 
4 


38 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


thing  but  that  the  lie  was  gratuitous.  No,  not  even  a 
child  can  love  a  lie  purely  for  its  own  sake ;  he  would 
else  love  it  in  another,  which  is  against  fact.  Indeed,  so 
far  from  it,  that,  long  before  he  can  have  had  any  notion 
of  what  is  meant  by  honor,  the  word  liar  becomes  one 
of  his  first  and  most  opprobrious  terms  of  reproach. 
Look  at  any  child's  face  when  he  tells  his  companion 
he  lies.  We  ask  no  more  than  that  most  logical  ex- 
pression ;  and,  if  it  speak  not  of  a  natural  abhorrence 
only  to  be  overcome  by  self-interest,  there  is  no  trust  in 
any  thing.  No.  We  cannot  believe  that  man  or  child, 
however  depraved,  could  tell  an  unproductive,  gratui- 
tous lie. 

Of  the  last  and  highest  source  of  our  pleasurable 
emotions  we  need  say  little ;  since  no  one  will  question 
that,  if  sought  at  all,  it  can  only  be  for  its  own  sake. 
But  it  does  not  become  us  —  at  least  in  this  place — to 
enter  on  the  subject  of  Holiness  ;  of  that  angelic  state, 
whose  only  manifestation  is  in  the  perfect  unison  with 
the  Divine  Will.  We  may,  however,  consider  it  in  the 
next  degree,  as  it  is  known,  and  as  we  believe  often 
realized,  among  men:  we  mean  Goodness. 

We  presume  it  is  superfluous  to  define  a  good  act ; 
for  every  one  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  that  no  act  is 
good  in  its  true  sense,  which  has  any,  the  least,  refer- 
ence to  the  agent's  self.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  adduce 
examples;  our  object  being  rather  to  show  that  the 
recognition  of  goodness  —  and  we  beg  that  the  word 
be  especially  noted  —  must  result,  of  necessity,  in  such 
an  emotion  as  shall  partake  of  its  own  character,  that 
is,  be  entirely  devoid  of  self-interest. 

This  will  no  doubt  appear  to  many  a  startling  posi- 
tion. But  let  it  be  observed,  that  we  have  not  said  it 
will  always  be  recognized.    There  are  many  reasons 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


39 


why  it  should  not  be,  and  is  not.  We  all  know  how 
easy  it  is  to  turn  away  from  what  gives  us  no  pleasure. 
A  long  course  of  vice,  together  with  the  consciousness 
that  goodness  has  departed  from  ourselves,  may  make 
it  painful  to  look  upon  it.  Nay,  the  contemplation  of 
it  may  become,  on  this  account,  so  painful  as  to 
amount  to  agony.  But  that  Goodness  can  be  hated 
for  its  own  sake  we  do  not  believe,  except  by  a  devil, 
or  some  irredeemable  incarnation  of  evil,  if  such  there 
be  on  this  side  the  grave.  But  it  is  objected,  that 
bad  men  have  sometimes  a  pleasure  in  Evil  from  which 
they  neither  derive  nor  hope  for  any  personal  advantage, 
that  is,  simply  because  it  is  evil.  But  we  deny  the 
fact.  We  deny  that  an  unmixed  pleasure,  which  is 
purely  abstracted  from  all  reference  to  self,  is  in  the 
power  of  Evil.  Should  any  man  assert  this  even  of 
himself,  he  is  not  to  be  believed;  he  lies  to  his  own 
heart,  —  and  this  he  may  do  without  being  conscious  of 
it.  But  how  can  this  be  ?  Nothing  more  easy  :  by  a 
simple  dislocation  of  words  ;  by  the  aid  of  that  false 
nomenclature  which  began  with  the  first  Fratricide,  and 
has  continued  to  accumulate  through  successive  ages, 
till  it  reached  its  consummation,  for  every  possible  sin, 
in  the  French  Revolution.  Indeed,  there  are  few  things 
more  easy ;  it  is  only  to  transfer  to  the  evil  the  name 
of  its  opposite.  Some  of  us,  perhaps,  may  have  wit- 
nessed the  savage  exultation  of  some  hardened  wretch, 
when  the  accidental  spectator  of  an  atrocious  act. 
But  is  such  exultation  pleasure  ?  Is  it  at  all  akin  to 
what  is  recognized  as  pleasure  even  by  this  hardened 
wretch  ?  Yet  so  he  may  call  it.  But  should  we,  could 
we  look  into  his  heart  ?  Should  we  not  rather  pause 
for  a  time,  from  mere  ignorance  of  the  true  vernacular 
of  sin.    What  he  feels  may  thus  be  a  mystery  to  all 


40 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


but  the  reprobate ;  but  it  is  not  pleasure  either  in  the 
deed  or  the  doer:  for,  as  the  law  of  Good  is  Har- 
mony, so  is  Discord  that  of  Evil;  and  as  sympathy 
to  Harmony,  so  is  revulsion  to  Discord.  And  where 
is  hatred  deepest  and  deadliest  ?  Among  the  wicked. 
Yet  they  often  hate  the  good.  True :  but  not  good- 
ness, not  the  good  man's  virtues  ;  these  they  envy,  and 
hate  him  for  possessing  them.  But  more  commonly 
the  object  of  dislike  is  first  stripped  of  his  virtues  by  de- 
traction ;  the  detractor  then  supplies  their  place  by  the 
needful  vices,  —  perhaps  with  his  own;  then,  indeed, 
he  is  ripe  for  hatred.  When  a  sinful  act  is  made  per- 
sonal, it  is  another  affair ;  it  then  becomes  a  part  of  the 
man  ;  and  he  may  then  worship  it  with  the  idolatry  of 
a  devil.  But  there  is  a  vast  gulf  between  his  own 
idol  and  that  of  another. 

To  prevent  misapprehension,  we  would  here  observe, 
that  we  do  not  affirm  of  either  Good  or  Evil  any  irre- 
sistible power  of  enforcing  love  or  exciting  abhorrence, 
having  evidence  to  the  contrary  in  the  multitudes 
about  us ;  all  we  affirm  is,  that,  when  contemplated 
abstractly,  they  cannot  be  viewed  otherwise.  Nor  is 
the  fact  of  their  inefficiency  in  many  cases  difficult  of 
solution,  when  it  is  remembered  that  the  very  condition 
to  their  true  effect  is  the  complete  absence  of  self,  that 
they  must  clearly  be  viewed  ab  extra ;  a  hard,  not  to 
say  impracticable,  condition  to  the  very  depraved  ;  for 
it  may  well  be  doubted  if  to  such  minds  any  act  or 
object  having  a  moral  nature  can  be  presented  without 
some  personal  relation.  It  is  not  therefore  surprising, 
that,  where  the  condition  is  so  precluded,  there  should 
be,  not  only  no  proper  response  to  the  law  of  Good  or 
Evil,  but  such  frequent  misapprehension  of  their  true 
character.    "Were  it  possible  to  see  with  the  eyes  of 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


41 


others,  this  might  not  so  often  occur ;  for  it  need  not 
be  remarked,  that  few  things,  if  any,  ever  retain  their 
proper  forms  in  the  atmosphere  of  self-love;  a  fact  that 
will  account  for  many  obliquities  besides  the  one  in 
question.  To  this  we  may  add,  that  the  existence  of 
a  compulsory  power  in  either  Good  or  Evil  could  not, 
in  respect  to  man,  consist  with  his  free  agency,  —  with- 
out which  there  could  be  no  conscience  ;  nor  does  it 
follow,  that,  because  men,  with  the  free  power  of  choice, 
yet  so  often  choose  wrong,  there  is  any  natural  indis- 
tinctness in  the  absolute  character  of  Evil,  which,  as 
before  hinted,  is  sufficiently  apparent  to  them  when  re- 
ferring to  others ;  in  such  cases  the  obliquitous  choice 
only  shows,  that,  with  the  full  force  of  right  perception, 
their  interposing  passions  or  interests  have  also  the 
power  of  giving  their  own  color  to  every  object  hav- 
ing the  least  relation  to  themselves. 

Admitting  this  personal  modification,  we  may  then 
safely  repeat  our  position,  —  that  to  hate  Good  or  to 
love  Evil,  solely  for  their  own  sakes,  is  only  possible 
with  the  irredeemably  wicked,  in  other  words,  with 
devils. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  latter  clause  of  our  general 
proposition.  And  here  it  may  be  asked,  on  what 
ground  we  assume  one  intuitive  universal  Principle  as 
the  true  source  of  all  those  emotions  which  have  just 
been  discussed.  To  this  we  reply,  On  the  ground  of 
their  common  agreement.  As  we  shall  here  use  the 
words  effect  and  emotion  as  convertible  terms,  we  wish 
it  to  be  understood,  that,  when  we  apply  the  epithet 
common  or  same  to  effect,  we  do  so  only  in  relation  to 
kind,  and  for  the  sake  of  brevity,  instead  of  saying  the 
same  class  of  effects ;  implying  also  in  the  word  kind 
the  existence  of  many  degrees,  but  no  other  difference. 
4* 


42 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


For  instance,  if  a  beautiful  flower  and  a  noble  act 
shall  be  found  to  excite  a  kindred  emotion,  however 
slight  from  the  one  or  deep  from  the  other,  they  come 
in  effect  under  the  same  category.  And  this  we  are 
forced  to  admit,  however  heterogeneous,  since  a  com- 
mon ground  is  necessarily  predicated  of  a  common  re- 
sult. How  else,  for  instance,  can  we  account  for  a 
scene  in  nature,  a  bird,  an  animal,  a  human  form,  af- 
fecting us  each  in  a  similar  way  ?  There  is  certainly 
no  similitude  in  the  objects  that  compose  a  landscape, 
and  the  form  of  an  animal  and  man ;  they  have  no 
resemblance  either  in  shape,  or  texture,  or  color,  in 
roughness,  smoothness,  or  any  other  known  quality; 
while  their  several  effects  are  so  near  akin,  that  we  do 
not  stop  to  measure  even  the  wide  degrees  by  which 
they  are  marked,  but  class  them  in  a  breath  by  some 
common  term.  It  is  very  plain  that  this  singular  prop- 
erty of  assimilating  to  one  what  is  so  widely  unlike 
cannot  proceed  from  any  similar  conformation,  or  qual- 
ity, or  attribute  of  mere  being,  that  is,  of  any  thing 
essential  to  distinctive  existence.  There  must  needs, 
then,  be  some  common  ground  for  their  common  effect. 
For  if  they  agree  not  in  themselves  one  with  the  other, 
it  follows  of  necessity  that  the  ground  of  their  agree- 
ment must  be  in  relation  to  something  within  our  own 
minds,  since  only  there  is  this  common  effect  known 
as  a  fact. 

We  are  now  brought  to  the  important  question, 
Where  and  what  is  this  reconciling  ground  ?  Certainly 
not  in  sensation,  for  that  could  only  reflect  their  dis- 
tinctive differences.  Neither  can  it  be  in  the  reflective 
faculties,  since  the  effect  in  question,  being  co-instan- 
taneous, is  wholly  independent  of  any  process  of  rea- 
soning ;  for  we  do  not  feel  it  because  we  understand, 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


43 


but  only  because  we  are  conscious  of  its  presence. 
Nay,  it  is  because  we  neither  do  nor  can  understand 
it,  being  therefore  a  matter  aloof  from  all  the  powers  of 
reasoning,  that  its  character  is  such  as  has  been  assert- 
ed, and,  as  such,  universal. 

Where,  then,  shall  we  search  for  this  mysterious 
ground  but  in  the  mind,  since  only  there,  as  before 
observed,  is  this  common  effect  known  as  a  fact?  and 
where  in  the  mind  but  in  some  inherent  Principle, 
which  is  both  intuitive  and  universal,  since,  in  a  great- 
er or  less  degree,  all  men  feel  it  without  knowing  ivhy  ? 

But  since  an  inward  Principle  can,  of  necessity,  have 
only  a  potential  existence,  until  called  into  action  by 
some  outward  object,  it  is  also  clear  that  any  similar 
effect,  which  shall  then  be  recognized  through  it,  from 
any  number  of  differing  and  distinct  objects,  can  only 
arise  from  some  mutual  relation  between  a  something' 
in  the  objects  and  in  the  Principle  supposed,  as  their 
joint  result  and  proper  product. 

And,  since  it  would  appear  that  we  cannot  avoid  the 
admission  of  some  such  Principle,  having  a  reciprocal 
relation  to  certain  outward  objects,  to  account  for  these 
kindred  emotions  from  so  many  distinct  and  heteroge- 
neous sources,  it  remains  only  that  we  give  it  a  name ; 
which  has  already  been  anticipated  in  the  term  Har- 
mony. 

The  next  question  here  is,  In  what  consists  this  pecu- 
liar relation  ?  We  have  seen  that  it  cannot  be  in  any 
thing  that  is  essential  to  any  condition  of  mere  being 
or  existence ;  it  must  therefore  consist  in  some  undis- 
coverable  condition  indifferently  applicable  to  the  Phys- 
ical, Intellectual,  and  Moral,  yet  only  applicable  in  each 
to  certain  kinds. 

And  this  is  all  that  we  do  or  can  know  of  it.  But 


44 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


of  this  we  may  be  as  certain  as  that  we  live  and 
breathe. 

It  is  true  that,  for  particular  purposes,  we  may 
analyze  certain  combinations  of  sounds  and  colors  and 
forms,  so  as  to  ascertain  their  relative  quantities  or 
collocation;  and  these  facts  (of  which  we  shall  here- 
after have  occasion  to  speak)  may  be  of  importance 
both  in  Art  and  Science.  Still,  when  thus  obtained, 
they  will  be  no  more  than  mere  facts,  on  which  we  can 
predicate  nothing  but  that,  when  they  are  imitated,  — 
that  is,  when  similar  combinations  of  quantities,  &c, 
are  repeated  in  a  work  of  art,  —  they  will  produce  the 
same  effect.  But  why  they  should  is  a  mystery  which 
the  reflective  faculties  do  not  solve;  and  never  can, 
because  it  refers  to  a  living  Power  that  is  above  the 
understanding.  In  the  human  figure,  for  instance,  we 
can  give  no  reason  why  eight  heads  to  the  stature 
please  us  better  than  six,  or  why  three  or  twelve 
heads  seem  to  us  monstrous.  If  we  say,  in  the  latter 
case,  because  the  head  of  the  one  is  too  small  and  of 
the  other  too  large,  we  give  no  reason ;  we  only  state 
the  fact  of  their  disagreeable  effect  on  us.  And,  if  we 
make  the  proportion  of  eight  heads  our  rule,  it  is  be- 
cause of  the  fact  of  its  being  more  pleasing  to  us  than 
any  other ;  and,  from  the  same  feeling,  we  prefer  those 
statures  which  approach  it  the  nearest.  Suppose  we 
analyze  a. certain  combination  of  sounds  and  colors, 
so  as  to  ascertain  the  exact  relative  quantities  of  the 
one  and  the  collocation  of  the  other,  and  then  com- 
pare them.  What  possible  resemblance  can  the  under- 
standing perceive  between  these  sounds  and  colors  ? 
And  yet  a  something  within  us  responds  to  both  in  a 
similar  emotion.  And  so  with  a  thousand  things,  nay, 
with  myriads  of  objects  that  have  no  other  affinity  but 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


45 


with  that  mysterious  harmony  which  began  with  our 
being,  which  slept  with  our  infancy,  and  which  their 
presence  only  seems  to  have  aivakened.  If  we  cannot 
go  back  to  our  own  childhood,  we  may  see  its  illustra- 
tion in  those  about  us  who  are  now  emerging  into  that 
unsophisticated  state.  Look  at  them  in  the  fields, 
among  the  birds  and  flowers ;  their  happy  faces  speak 
the  harmony  within  them :  the  divine  instrument, 
which  these  have  touched,  gives  them  a  joy  which,  per- 
haps, only  childhood  in  its  first  fresh  consciousness  can 
know.  Yet  what  do  they  understand  of  musical  quanti- 
ties, or  of  the  theory  of  colors  ? 

And  so  with  respect  to  Truth  and  Goodness ;  whose 
preexisting  Ideas,  being  in  the  living  constituents  of 
an  immortal  spirit,  need  but  the  slightest  breath  of 
some  outward  condition  of  the  true  and  good,  —  a 
simple  problem,  or  a  kind  act,  —  to  awake  them,  as  it 
were,  from  their  unconscious  sleep,  and  start  them 
for  eternity. 

We  may  venture  to  assert,  that  no  philosopher,  how- 
ever ingenious,  could  communicate  to  a  child  the  ab- 
stract idea  of  Right,  had  the  latter  nothing  beyond  or 
above  the  understanding.  He  might,  indeed,  be  taught, 
like  the  inferior  animals,  —  a  dog,  for  instance,  —  that,  if 
he  took  certain  forbidden  things,  he  would  be  punished, 
and  thus  do  right  through  fear.  Still  he  would  desire 
the  forbidden  thing,  though  belonging  to  another ;  nor 
could  he  conceive  why  he  should  not  appropriate  to 
himself,  and  thus  allay  his  appetite,  what  was  held  by 
another,  could  he  do  so  undetected  ;  nor  attain  to  any 
higher  notion  of  right  than  that  of  the  strongest.  But 
the  child  has  something  higher  than  the  mere  power  of 
apprehending  consequences.  The  simplest  exposition, 
whether  of  right  or  wrong,  even  by  an  ignorant  nurse, 


46 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


is  instantly  responded  to  by  something  within  him, 
which,  thus  awakened,  becomes  to  him  a  living  voice 
ever  after;  and  the  good  and  the  true  must  thenceforth 
answer  its  call,  even  though  succeeding  years  would 
fain  overlay  them  with  the  suffocating  crowds  of  evil 
and  falsehood. 

We  do  not  say  that  these  eternal  Ideas  of  Beauty, 
Truth,  and  Goodness  will,  strictly  speaking,  always  act. 
Though  indestructible,  they  may  be  banished  for  a  time 
by  the  perverted  Will,  and  mockeries  of  the  brain,  like 
the  fume-born  phantoms  from  the  witches'  caldron  in 
Macbeth,  take  their  places,  and  assume  their  functions. 
We  have  examples  of  this  in  every  age,  and  perhaps  in 
none  more  startling  than  in  the  present.  But  we  mean 
only  that  they  cannot  be  forgotten :  nay,  they  are  but 
too  often  recalled  with  unwelcome  distinctness.  Could 
we  read  the  annals  which  must  needs  be  scored  on  ev- 
ery heart,  —  could  we  look  upon  those  of  the  aged  rep- 
robate, — who  will  doubt  that  their  darkest  passages  are 
those  made  visible  by  the  distant  gleams  from  these 
angelic  Forms,  that,  like  the  Three  which  stood  before 
the  tent  of  Abraham,  once  looked  upon  his  youth  ? 

And  we  doubt  not  that  the  truest  witness  to  the 
common  source  of  these  inborn  Ideas  would  readily  be 
acknowledged  by  all,  could  they  return  to  it  now  with 
their  matured  power  of  introspection,  which  is,  at  least, 
one  of  the  few  advantages  of  advancing  years.  But, 
though  we  cannot  bring  back  youth,  we  may  still  re- 
cover much  of  its  purer  revelations  of  our  nature  from 
what  has  been  left  in  the  memory.  From  the  dim 
present,  then,  we  would  appeal  to  that  fresher  time, 
ere  the  young  spirit  had  shrunk  from  the  overbear- 
ing pride  of  the  understanding,  and  confidently  ask,  if 
the  emotions  we  then  felt  from  the  Beautiful,  the  True, 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


47 


and  the  Good,  did  not  seem  in  some  way  to  refer  to  a 
common  origin.  And  we  would  also  ask,  if  it  was  then 
frequent  that  the  influence  from  one  was  singly  felt, — if 
it  did  not  rather  bring  with  it,  however  remotely,  a  sense 
of  something,  though  widely  differing,  yet  still  akin  to 
it.  When  we  have  basked  in  the  beauty  of  a  summer 
sunset,  was  there  nothing  in  the  sky  that  spoke  to  the 
soul  of  Truth  and  Goodness  ?  And  when  the  opening 
intellect  first  received  the  truth  of  the  great  law  of 
gravitation,  or  felt  itself  mounting  through  the  pro- 
found of  space,  to  travel  with  the  planets  in  their  un- 
erring rounds,  did  never  then  the  kindred  Ideas  of 
Goodness  and  Beauty  chime  in,  as  it  were,  with  the 
fabled  music,  —  not  fabled  to  the  soul,  —  which  led  you 
on  like  one  entranced  ? 

And  again,  when,  in  the  passive  quiet  of  your  moral 
nature,  so  predisposed  in  youth  to  all  things  genial, 
you  have  looked  abroad  on  this  marvellous,  ever  teem- 
ing Earth,  —  ever  teeming  alike  for  mind  and  body,  — 
and  have  felt  upon  you  flow,  as  from  ten  thousand 
springs  of  Goodness,  Truth,  and  Beauty,  ten  thousand 
streams  of  innocent  enjoyment ;  did  you  not  then 
almost  hear  them  shout  in  confluence,  and  almost  see 
them  gushing  upwards,  as  if  they  would  prove  their 
unity,  in  one  harmonious  fountain  ? 

But,  though  the  preceding  be  admitted  as  all  true  in 
respect  to  certain  "  gifted  "  individuals,  it  may  yet  be 
denied  that  it  is  equally  true  with  respect  to  all,  in  other 
words,  that  the  Principle  assumed  is  an  inherent  con- 
stituent of  the  human  being.  To  this  we  reply,  that 
universality  does  not  necessarily  imply  equality. 

The  universality  of  a  Principle  does  not  imply  every- 
where equal  energy  or  activity,  or  even  the  same  mode 
of  manifestation,  any  more  than  do  the  essential  Fac- 


48 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


ulties  of  the  Understanding.  Of  this  we  have  an  anal- 
ogous illustration  in  the  faculty  of  Memory ;  which  is 
almost  indefinitely  differenced  in  different  men,  both  in 
degree  and  mode.  In  some,  its  greatest  power  is 
shown  in  the  retention  of  thoughts,  but  not  of  words, 
that  is,  not  of  the  original  words  in  which  they  were  pre- 
sented. Others  possess  it  in  a  very  remarkable  degree 
as  to  forms,  places,  &c,  and  but  imperfectly  for  other 
things ;  others,  again,  never  forget  names,  dates,  or  fig- 
ures, yet  cannot  repeat  a  conversation  the  day  after  it 
took  place ;  while  some  few  have  the  doubtful  happi- 
ness of  forgetting  nothing.  We  might  go  on  with  a 
long  list  of  the  various  modes  and  degrees  in  which 
this  faculty,  so  essential  to  the  human  being,  is  every- 
where manifested.  But  this  is  sufficient  for  our  pur- 
pose. In  like  manner  is  the  Principle  of  Harmony 
manifested ;  in  one  person  as  it  relates  to  Form,  in 
another  to  Sound ;  so,  too,  may  it  vary  as  to  the  degrees 
of  truth  and  goodness.  We  say  degrees  ;  for  we  may 
well  doubt  whether,  even  in  the  faculty  of  memory,  its 
apparent  absence  as  to  any  one  essential  object  is  any 
thing  more  than  a  feeble  degree  of  activity:  and  the 
doubt  is  strengthened  by  the  fact,  that  in  many  seem- 
ingly hopeless  cases  it  has  been  actually,  as  it  were, 
brought  into  birth.  And  we  are  still  indisposed  to  ad- 
mit its  entire  absence  in  any  one  particular  for  which  it 
was  bestowed  on  man.  An  imperfect  developement, 
especially  as  relating  to  the  intellectual  and  moral,  we 
know  to  depend,  in  no  slight  measure,  on  the  will  of 
the  subject.  Nay,  (with  the  exception  of  idiots,)  it  may 
safely  be  affirmed,  that  no  individual  ever  existed  who 
could  not  perceive  the  difference  between  what  is  true 
and  false,  and  right  and  wrong.  We  here,  of  course, 
except  those  who  have  so  ingeniously  unmade  them- 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


49 


selves,  in  order  to  reconstruct  their  "  humanity  99  after  a 
better  fashion.  As  to  the  "  why "  of  these  differences, 
we  know  nothing ;  it  is  one  of  those  unfathomable 
mysteries  which  to  the  finite  mind  must  ever  be 
hidden. 

Though  it  has  been  our  purpose,  throughout  this  dis- 
course, to  direct  our  inquiries  mainly  to  the  essential 
Elements  of  the  subject,  it  may  not  be  amiss  here  to 
take  a  brief  notice  of  their  collateral  product  in  those 
mixed  modes  from  which  we  derive  so  large  a  portion 
of  our  mental  gratification  :  we  allude  to  the  various 
combinations  of  the  several  Ideas,  which  have  just  been 
examined,  with  each  other  as  well  as  with  their  opposites. 
To  this  prolific  source  may  be  traced  much  of  that  many- 
colored  interest  which  we  take  in  their  various  forms  as 
presented  by  the  imagination,  —  in  every  thing,  indeed, 
which  is  true,  or  even  partially  true,  to  the  great  Prin- 
ciple of  Harmony,  both  in  nature  and  in  art.  It  is  to 
these  mixed  modes  more  especially,  that  we  owe  all 
that  mysterious  interest  which  gives  the  illusion  of  life 
to  a  work  of  fiction,  and  fills  us  with  delight  or  melts 
with  woe,  whether  in  the  happiness  or  the  suffering  of 
some  imagined  being,  uniting  goodness  with  beauty, 
or  virtue  with  plainness,  or  uncommon  purity  and  in- 
tellect even  with  deformity;  for  even  that  may  be 
so  overpowered  in  the  prominent  harmony  of  superior 
intellect  and  moral  worth,  as  to  be  virtually  neutralized, 
at  least,  to  become  unobtrusive  as  a  discordant  force. 
Besides,  it  cannot  be  expected  that  complete  harmony  is 
ever  to  be  realized  in  our  imperfect  state  ;  we  should 
else,  perhaps,  with  such  expectation,  have  no  pleasures 
of  the  kind  we  speak  of:  nor  is  this  necessary,  the  im- 
agination being  always  ready  to  supply  deficiencies, 
whenever  the  approximation  is  sufficiently  near  to  call 
5 


50 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


it  forth.  Nay,  if  the  interest  felt  be  nothing  more  than 
mere  curiosity,  we  still  refer  to  this  presiding  Principle ; 
which  is  no  less  essential  to  a  simple  combination  of 
events,  than  to  the  higher  demands  of  Form  or  Char- 
acter. But  its  presence  must  be  felt,  however  slightly. 
Of  this  we  have  the  evidence  in  many  cases,  and,  per- 
haps, most  conclusive  where  the  partial  harmony  is  felt 
to  verge  on  a  powerful  discord ;  or  where  the  effort  to 
unite  them  produces  that  singular  alternation  of  what 
is  both  revolting  and  pleasing :  as  in  the  startling  union 
of  evil  passions  with  some  noble  quality,  or  with  a 
master  intellect.  And  here  we  have  a  solution  of  that 
paradoxical  feeling  of  interest  and  abhorrence,  which 
we  experience  in  such  a  character  as  King  Richard. 

And  may  it  not  be  that  we  are  permitted  this  in- 
terest for  a  deeper  purpose  than  we  are  wont  to  sup- 
pose ;  because  Sin  is  best  seen  in  the  light  of  Virtue,  — 
and  then  most  fearfully  when  she  holds  the  torch  to 
herself  ?  Be  this  as  it  may,  with  pure,  unintellectual, 
brutal  evil  it  is  very  different.  We  cannot  look  upon 
it  undismayed :  we  take  no  interest  in  it,  nor  can  we. 
In  Richard  there  is  scarce  a  glimmer  of  his  better  na- 
ture ;  yet  we  do  not  despise  him,  for  his  intellect  and 
courage  command  our  respect.  But  the  fiend  Iago, 
—  who  ever  followed  him  through  the  weaving  of 
his  spider-like  web,  without  perpetual  recurrence  to  its 
venomous  source,  —  his  devilish  heart  ?  Even  the  in- 
tellect he  shows  seems  actually  annualized,  and  we 
shudder  at  its  subtlety,  as  at  the  cunning  of  a  reptile. 
Whatever  interest  may  have  been  imputed  to  him 
should  be  placed  to  the  account  of  his  hapless  victim ; 
to  the  first  striving  with  distrust  of  a  generous  nature ; 
to  the  vague  sense  of  misery,  then  its  gradual  develope- 
ment,  then  the  final  overthrow  of  absolute  faith ;  and, 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


51 


last  of  all,  to  the  throes  of  agony  of  the  noble  Moor, 
as  he  writhes  and  gasps  in  his  accursed  toils. 

To  these  mixed  modes  may  be  added  another 
branch,  which  we  shall  term  the  class  of  Imputed  At- 
tributes. In  this  class  are  concerned  all  those  natural 
objects  with  which  we  connect  (not  by  individual  asso- 
ciation, but  by  a  general  law  of  the  mind)  certain 
moral  or  intellectual  attributes ;  which  are  not,  indeed, 
supposed  to  exist  in  the  objects  themselves,  but  which, 
by  some  unknown  affinity,  they  awaken  or  occasion  in 
us,  and  which  we,  in  our  turn,  impute  to  them.  How- 
ever this  be,  there  are  multitudes  of  objects  in  the  inan- 
imate world,  which  we  cannot  contemplate  without  as- 
sociating with  them  many  of  the  characteristics  which 
we  ascribe  to  the  human  being ;  and  the  ideas  so 
awakened  we  involuntarily  express  by  the  ascription 
of  such  significant  epithets  as  stately,  majestic,  grand, 
and  so  on.  It  is  so  with  us,  when  we  call  some  tall 
forest  stately,  or  qualify  as  majestic  some  broad  and 
slowly-winding  river,  or  some  vast,  yet  unbroken  water- 
fall, or  some  solitary,  gigantic  pine,  seeming  to  disdain 
the  earth,  and  to  hold  of  right  its  eternal  communion 
with  air ;  or  when  to  the  smooth  and  far-reaching  ex- 
panse of  our  inland  waters,  with  their  bordering  and 
receding  mountains,  as  they  seem  to  march  from  the 
shores,  in  the  pomp  of  their  dark  draperies  of  wood  and 
mist,  we  apply  the  terms  grand  and  magnificent :  and  so 
onward  to  an  endless  succession  of  objects,  imputing, 
as  it  were,  our  own  nature,  and  lending  our  sympathies, 
till  the  headlong  rush  of  some  mighty  cataract  sudden- 
ly thunders  upon  us.  But  how  is  it  then?  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  outflowing  sympathies  ebb 
back  upon  the  heart ;  the  whole  mind  seems  severed 
from  earth,  and  the   awful   feeling  to  suspend  the 


52 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


breath;  —  there  is  nothing  human  to  which  we  can 
liken  it.  And  here  begins  another  kind  of  emotion, 
which  we  call  Sublime. 

We  are  not  aware  that  this  particular  class  of  objects 
has  hitherto  been  noticed,  at  least  as  holding  a  dis- 
tinct position.  And,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  supply 
the  omission,  we  should  assign  to  it  the  intermediate 
place  between  the  Beautiful  and  the  Sublime.  Indeed, 
there  seems  to  be  no  other  station  so  peculiarly  proper ; 
inasmuch  as  they  would  thus  form,  in  a  consecutive 
series,  a  regular  ascent  from  the  sensible  material  to 
the  invisible  spiritual :  hence  naturally  uniting  into  one 
harmonious  whole  every  possible  emotion  of  our  higher 
nature. 

In  the  preceding  discussion,  we  have  considered  the 
outward  world  only  in  its  immediate  relation  to  Man, 
and  the  Human  Being  as  the  predetermined  centre  to 
which  it  was  designed  to  converge.  As  the  subject, 
however,  of  what  are  called  the  sublime  emotions,  he 
holds  a  different  position ;  for  the  centre  here  is  not 
himself,  nor,  indeed,  can  he  approach  it  within  con- 
ceivable distance :  yet  still  he  is  drawn  to  it,  though 
baffled  for  ever.  Now  the  question  is,  Where,  and  in 
what  bias,  is  this  mysterious  attraction  ?  It  must 
needs  be  in  something  having  a  clear  affinity  with 
us,  or  we  could  not  feel  it.  But  the  attraction  is 
also  both  pure  and  pleasurable;  and  it  has  just  been 
shown,  that  we  have  in  ourselves  but  one  principle  by 
which  to  recognize  any  corresponding  emotion,  —  name- 
ly, the  principle  of  Harmony.  May  we  not  then  infer 
a  similar  Principle  without  us,  an  Infinite  Harmony,  to 
which  our  own  is  attracted  ?  and  may  we  not  further, 
—  if  we  may  so  speak  without  irreverence,  —  suppose 
our  own  to  have  emanated  thence  when  "  man  became 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


53 


a  living  soul 99  ?  And  though  this  relation  may  not  be 
consciously  acknowledged  in  every  instance,  or  even  in 
one,  by  the  mass  of  men,  does  it  therefore  follow  that 
it  does  not  exist  ?  How  many  things  act  upon  us  of 
which  we  have  no  knowledge  ?  If  we  find,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Beautiful,  the  same,  or  a  similar,  effect  to 
follow  from  a  great  variety  of  objects  which  have  no 
resemblance  or  agreement  with  one  another,  is  it  not  a 
necessary  inference,  that  for  their  common  effect  they 
must  all  refer  to  something  without  and  distinct  from 
themselves?  Now  in  the  case  of  the  Sublime,  the 
something  referred  to  is  not  in  man  :  for  the  emotion 
excited  has  an  outward  tendency ;  the  mind  cannot 
contain  it ;  and  the  effort  to  follow  it  towards  its  mys- 
terious object,  if  long  continued,  becomes,  in  the  excess 
of  interest,  positively  painful. 

Could  any  finite  object  account  for  this  ?  But,  sup- 
posing the  Infinite,  we  have  an  adequate  cause.  If 
these  emotions,  then,  from  whatever  object  or  circum- 
stance, be  to  prompt  the  mind  beyond  its  prescribed 
limits,  whether  carrying  it  back  to  the  primitive  past, 
the  incomprehensible  beginning,  or  sending  it  into  the 
future,  to  the  unknown  end,  the  ever-present  Idea  of 
the  mighty  Author  of  all  these  mysteries  must  still  be 
implied,  though  we  think  not  of  it.  It  is  this  Idea,  or 
rather  its  influence,  whether  we  be  conscious  of  it  or 
not,  which  we  hold  to  be  the  source  of  every  sublime 
emotion.  To  make  our  meaning  plainer,  we  should 
say,  that  that  which  has  the  power  of  possessing  the 
mind,  to  the  exclusion,  for  the  time,  of  all  other 
thought,  and  which  presents  no  comprehensible  sense 
of  a  whole,  though  still  impressing  us  with  a  full  ap- 
prehension of  such  as  a  reality,  —  in  other  words, 
which  cannot  be  circumscribed  by  the  forms  of  the  un- 
5* 


54 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


derstanding  while  it  strains  them  to  the  utmost,  —  that 
we  should  term  a  sublime  object.  But  whether  this 
effect  be  occasioned  directly  by  the  object  itself,  or  be 
indirectly  suggested  by  its  relations  to  some  other 
object,  its  unknown  cause,  it  matters  not;  since  the 
apparent  power  of  calling  forth  the  emotion,  by  what- 
ever means,  is,  quoad  ourselves,  its  sublime  condition. 
Hence,  if  a  minute  insect,  an  ant,  for  instance,  through 
its  marvellous  instinct,  lift  the  mind  of  the  amazed 
spectator  to  the  still  more  inscrutable  Creator,  it  must 
possess,  as  to  him,  the  same  power.  This  is,  indeed,  an 
extreme  case,  and  may  be  objected  to  as  depending  on 
the  individual  mind;  on  a  mind  prepared  by  cultiva- 
tion and  previous  reflection  for  the  effect  in  question. 
But  to  this  it  may  be  replied,  that  some  degree  of  cul- 
tivation, or,  more  properly  speaking,  of  developement 
by  the  exercise  of  its  reflective  faculties,  is  obviously 
essential  ere  the  mind  can  attain  to  mature  growth,  — 
we  might  almost  say  to  its  natural  state,  since  noth- 
ing can  be  said  to  have  attained  its  true  nature  until 
all  its  capacities  are  at  least  called  into  birth.  No 
one,  for  example,  would  refer  to  the  savages  of  Aus- 
tralia for  a  true  specimen  of  what  was  proper  or  nat- 
ural to  the  human  mind ;  we  should  rather  seek  it,  if 
such  were  the  alternative,  in  a  civilized  child  of  five  years 
old.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  will  not  be  denied  that  ig- 
norance, brutality,  and  many  other  deteriorating  causes, 
do  practically  incapacitate  thousands  for  even  an  ap- 
proximation, not  only  to  this,  but  to  many  of  the  infe- 
rior emotions,  the  character  of  which  is  purely  mental. 
And  this,  we  think,  is  quite  sufficient  to  neutralize  the 
objection,  if  not,  indeed,  to  justify  the  application  of  the 
term  to  all  cases  where  the  immediate  effect,  whether  di- 
rectly or  indirectly,  is  such  as  has  been  described.  But, 


JNTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


55 


to  reduce  this  to  a  common-sense  view,  it  is  only  say- 
ing,—  what  no  one  will  deny, — -that  a  man  of  edu- 
cation and  refinement  has  not  only  more,  but  higher, 
pleasures  of  the  mind  than  a  mere  clown. 

But  though  the  position  here  advanced  must  ne- 
cessarily exclude  many  objects  which  have  hitherto, 
though,  as  we  think,  improperly,  been  classed  with  the 
sublime,  it  will  still  leave  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  for  the  utmost  exercise  of  our  limited  powers  ; 
inasmuch  as,  in  addition  to  the  multitude  of  objects  in 
the  material  world,  not  only  the  actions,  passions,  and 
thoughts  of  men,  but  whatever  concerns  the  human 
being,  that  in  any  way  —  by  a  hint  merely  —  leads 
the  mind,  though  indirectly,  to  the  Infinite  attributes,  — 
all  come  of  right  within  the  ground  assumed. 

It  will  be  borne  in  mind,  that  the  conscious  presence 
of  the  Infinite  Idea  is  not  only  not  insisted  on,  but  ex- 
pressly admitted  to  be,  in  most  cases,  unthought  of;  it 
is  also  admitted,  that  a  sublime  effect  is  often  power- 
fully felt  in  many  instances  where  this  Idea  could  not 
truly  be  predicated  of  the  apparent  object.  In  such 
cases,  however,  some  kind  of  resemblance,  or,  at  least, 
a  seeming  analogy  to  an  infinite  attribute,  is  neverthe- 
less essential.  It  must  appear  to  us,  for  the  time,  either 
limitless,  indefinite,  or  in  some  other  way  beyond  the 
grasp  of  the  mind  :  and,  whatever  an  object  may  seem 
to  be,  it  must  needs  in  effect  be  to  us  even  that  which 
it  seems.  Nor  does  this  transfer  the  emotion  to  a  dif- 
ferent source;  for  the  Infinite  Idea,  or  something  anal- 
ogous, being  thus  imputed,  is  in  reality  its  true  cause. 

It  is  still  the  unattainable,  the  ever-stimulating,  yet 
ever-eluding,  in  the  character  of  the  sublime  object,  that 
gives  to  it  both  its  term  and  its  effect.  And  whence 
the  conception  of  this  mysterious  character,  but  from  its 


56 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


mysterious  prototype,  the  Idea  of  the  Infinite?  Nei- 
ther does  it  matter,  as  we  have  said,  whether  actual 
or  supposed ;  for  what  the  imagination  cannot  master 
will  master  the  imagination.  Take,  for  instance,  but 
a  single  passion,  and  clothe  it  with  this  character;  in 
the  same  instant  it  becomes  sublime.  So,  too,  with  a 
single  thought.  In  the  Mosaic  words  so  often  quoted, 
"  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light,"  we  have  the 
sublime  of  thought,  of  mere  naked  thought ;  but  what 
could  more  awe  the  mind  with  the  power  of  God?  Of 
like  nature  is  the  conjecture  of  Newton,  when  he  im- 
agined stars  so  distant  from  the  sun  that  their  coeval 
light  has  not  yet  reached  us.  Let  us  endeavour  for  one 
moment  to  conceive  of  this  ;  does  not  the  soul  seem  to 
dilate  within  us,  and  the  body  to  shrink  as  to  a  grain 
of  dust  ?  "  Woe  is  me !  unclean,  unclean !  "  said  the 
holy  Prophet,  when  the  Infinite  Holiness  stood  before 
him.  Could  a  more  terrible  distance  be  measured,  than 
by  these  fearful  words,  between  God  and  man  ? 

If  it  be  objected  to  this  view,  that  many  cases  occur, 
having  the  same  conditions  with  those  assumed  in  our 
general  proposition,  which  are  yet  exclusively  painful, 
unmitigated  even  by  a  transient  moment  of  pleasure, — 
in  Despair,  for  instance,  —  as  who  can  limit  it?  —  to 
this  we  reply,  that  no  emotion  having  its  sole,  or  circle 
of  existence  in  the  individual  mind  itself,  can  be  to 
that  mind  other  than  a  subject  A  man  in  despair,  or 
under  any  mode  of  extreme  suffering  of  like  nature, 
may,  indeed,  if  all  interfering  sympathy  have  been  re- 
moved by  time  or  after-description,  be  to  another  a  sub- 
lime object,  —  at  least  in  one  of  those  suggestive  forms 
just  noticed ;  but  not  to  himself.  The  source  of  the 
sublime  —  as  all  along  implied — is  essentially  ab  extra. 
The  human  mind  is  not  its  centre,  nor  can  it  be  real' 
ized  except  by  a  contemplative  act. 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


57 


Besides,  as  a  mental  pleasure,  —  indeed  the  highest 
known,  —  to  be  recognized  as  such,  it  must  needs  be 
accompanied  by  the  same  relative  character  by  which 
is  tested  every  other  pleasure  coming  under  that  de- 
nomination ;  namely,  by  the  entire  absence  of  self,  that 
is,  by  the  same  freedom  from  all  personal  consideration 
which  has  been  shown  to  characterize  the  true  effect  of 
the  Three  leading  Ideas  already  considered.  But  if  to 
this  also  it  be  further  objected,  that  in  certain  particular 
cases,  as  of  personal  danger,  —  from  which  the  sublime 
emotion  has  often  been  experienced,  —  some  personal 
consideration  must  necessarily  be  involved,  as  without 
a  sense  of  security  we  could  not  enjoy  it ;  we  answer, 
that,  if  it  be  meant  only  that  the  mind  should  be  in 
such  a  state  as  to  enable  us  to  receive  an  unembar- 
rassed impression,  it  seems  to  us  superfluous,  —  an  ob- 
vious truism  placed  in  opposition  to  an  absurd  impossi- 
bility. "We  needed  not  to  be  told,  that  no  pleasurable 
emotion  is  likely  to  occur  while  we  are  unmanned  by 
fear.  The  same  might  be  said,  also,  in  respect  to  the 
Beautiful :  for  who  was  ever  alive  to  it  under  a  par- 
oxysm of  terror,  or  pain  of  any  kind  ?  A  terrified  per- 
son is  in  any  thing  but  a  fit  state  for  such  emotion. 
He  may  indeed  afterwards,  when  his  fear  is  passed  off, 
contemplate  the  circumstance  that  occasioned  it  with 
a  different  feeling ;  but  the  object  of  his  dismay  is 
then  projected,  as  it  were,  completely  from  himself;  and 
he  feels  the  sublimity  in  a  contemplative  state  :  he  can 
feel  it  in  no  other.  Nor  is  that  state  incompatible  with 
a  consciousness  of  peril,  though  it  can  never  be  with 
personal  terror.  And,  if  it  is  meant  that  we  should 
have  a  positive,  present  conviction  that  we  are  in  no 
danger,  this  we  must  deny,  as  we  find  it  contradict- 
ed in  innumerable  instances.    So  far,  indeed,  is  a  sense 


58 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


of  security  from  being  essential  to  the  condition  of  a 
sublime  emotion,  that  the  sense  of  danger,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  one  of  its  most  exciting  accompaniments. 
There  is  a  fascination  in  danger  which  some  persons 
neither  can  nor  would  resist ;  which  seems,  as  it  were, 
to  disenthral  them  of  self;  —  as  if  the  mysterious  In- 
finite were  actually  drawing  them  on  by  an  invisible 
power. 

Was  it  mere  scientific  curiosity  that  cost  the  elder 
Pliny  his  life  ?  Might  it  not  have  been  rather  this  sub- 
lime fascination  ?  But  we  have  repeated  examples  of 
it  in  our  own  time.  Many  who  will  read  this  may 
have  been  in  a  storm  at  sea.  Did  they  never  feel  its 
sublimity  while  they  knew  their  danger  ?  We  wTill 
answer  for  ourselves ;  for  we  have  been  in  one,  when 
the  dismasted  vessels  that  surrounded  us  permitted  no 
mistake  as  to  our  peril ;  it  was  strongly  felt,  but  still 
stronger  was  the  sublime  emotion  in  the  awful  scene. 
The  crater  of  Vesuvius  is  even  now,  perhaps  for  the 
thousandth  time,  reflecting  from  its  lake  of  fire  some 
ghastly  face,  with  indrawn  breath  and  hair  bristling, 
bent,  as  by  fate,  over  its  sulphurous  brink. 

Let  us  turn  to  Mont  Blanc,  that  mighty  pyramid  of 
ice,  in  whose  shadow  might  repose  all  the  tombs  of  the 
Pharaohs.  It  rises  before  the  traveller  like  the  accumu- 
lating mausoleum  of  Europe :  perhaps  he  looks  upon 
it  as  his  own  before  his  natural  time ;  yet  he  cannot 
away  from  it.  A  terrible  charm  hurries  him  over  fright- 
ful chasms,  whose  blue  depths  seem  like  those  of  the 
ocean;  he  cuts  his  way  up  a  polished  precipice,  shining 
like  steel,  —  as  elusive  to  the  touch ;  he  creeps  slowly 
and  warily  around  and  beneath  huge  cliffs  of  snow; 
now  he  looks  up,  and  sees  their  brows  fretted  by  the 
percolating  waters  like  a  Gothic  ceiling,  and  he  fears 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


59 


even  to  whisper,  lest  an  audible  breath  should  awaken 
the  avalanche :  and  thus  he  climbs  and  climbs,  till  the 
dizzy  summit  fills  up  his  measure  of  fearful  ecstasy. 

Now,  though  cases  may  occur  where  the  emotion  in 
question  is  attended  with  a  sense  of  security,  as  in  the 
reading  or  hearing  the  description  of  an  earthquake, 
such  as  that  of  1768  in  Lisbon,  while  we  are  safely 
housed  and  by  a  comfortable  fire,  it  does  not  there- 
fore follow,  that  this  consciousness  of  safety  is  its 
essential  condition.  It  is  merely  an  accidental  circum- 
stance. It  cannot,  therefore,  apply,  either  as  a  rule  or 
an  objection.  Besides,  even  if  supported  by  fact,  we 
might  well  dismiss  it  on  the  ground  of  irrelevancy, 
since  a  sense  of  personal  safety  cannot  be  placed  in  op- 
position to  and  as  inconsistent  with  a  disinterested  or 
unselfish  state ;  which  is  that  claimed  for  the  emotion 
as  its  true  condition.  If  there  be  not,  then,  a  sounder 
objection,  we  may  safely  admit  the  characteristic  in 
question ;  for  the  reception  of  which  we  have,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  weight  of  experience,  —  at  least  nega- 
tively, since,  strictly  speaking,  we  cannot  experience  the 
absence  of  any  thing. 

But  though,  according  to  our  theory,  there  are  many 
things  now  called  sublime  that  would  properly  come 
under  a  different  classification,  such  as  many  objects 
of  Art,  many  sentiments,  and  many  actions,  which 
are  strictly  human,  as  well  in  their  end  as  in  their  ori- 
gin ;  it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  the  exclusion  of  any 
work  of  man  is  because  of  its  apparent  origin,  but  of 
its  end,  the  end  only  being  the  determining  point,  as 
referring  to  its  Idea.  Now,  if  the  Idea  referred  to  be  of 
the  Infinite,  which  is  out  of  his  nature,  it  cannot  strict- 
ly be  said  to  originate  with  man,  —  that  is,  absolutely ; 
but  it  is  rather,  as  it  were,  a  reflected  form  of  it  from 


60 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


the  Maker  of  his  mind.  If  we  are  led  to  such  an  Idea9 
then,  by  any  work  of  imagination,  a  poem,  a  picture,  a 
statue,  or  a  building,  it  is  as  truly  sublime  as  any  natu- 
ral object.  This,  it  appears  to  us,  is  the  sole  mystery, 
without  which  neither  sound,  nor  color,  nor  form,  nor 
magnitude,  is  a  true  correlative  to  the  unseen  cause. 
And  here,  as  with  Beauty,  though  the  test  of  that  be 
within  us,  is  the  modus  operandi  equally  baffling  to  the 
scrutiny  of  the  understanding.  We  feel  ourselves,  as 
it  were,  lifted  from  the  earth,  and  look  upon  the  out- 
ward objects  that  have  so  affected  us,  yet  learn  not 
how;  and  the  mystery  deepens  as  we  compare  them 
with  other  objects  from  which  have  followed  the  same 
effects,  and  find  no  resemblance.  For  instance ;  the  roar 
of  the  ocean,  and  the  intricate  unity  of  a  Gothic  cathe- 
dral, whose  beginning  and  end  are  alike  intangible, 
while  its  climbing  tower  seems  visibly  even  to  rise  to 
the  Idea  which  it  strives  to  embody,  —  these  have  noth- 
ing in  common,  —  hardly  two  things  could  be  named 
that  are  more  unlike ;  yet  in  relation  to  man  they  have 
but  one  end :  for  who  can  hear  the  ocean  when  breath- 
ing in  wrath,  and  limit  it  in  his  mind,  though  he  think 
not  of  Him  who  gives  it  voice  ?  or  ascend  that  spire 
without  feeling  his  faculties  vanish,  as  it  were  with  its 
vanishing  point,  into  the  abyss  of  space  ?  If  there  be 
a  difference  in  the  effect  from  these  and  other  objects, 
it  is  only  in  the  intensity,  the  degree  of  impetus  given ; 
as  between  that  from  the  sudden  explosion  of  a  volcano 
and  from  the  slow  and  heavy  movement  of  a  rising 
thunder-cloud ;  its  character  and  its  office  are  the  same, 
—  in  its  awful  harmony  to  connect  the  created  with  its 
Infinite  Cause. 

But  let  us  compare  this  effect  with  that  from  Beauty. 
Would  the  Parthenon,  for  instance,  with  its  beauti- 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


61 


ful  forms,  —  made  still  more  beautiful  under  its  native 
sky,  —  seeming  almost  endued  with  the  breath  of  life, 
as  if  its  conscious  purple  were  a  living  suffusion 
brought  forth  in  sympathy  by  the  enamoured  blushes 
of  a  Grecian  sunset;  —  would  this  beautiful  object  even 
then  elevate  the  soul  above  its  own  roof  ?  No  :  we 
should  be  filled  with  a  pure  delight,  —  but  with  no 
longing  to  rise  still  higher.  It  would  satisfy  us ;  which 
the  sublime  does  not ;  for  the  feeling  is  too  vast  to  be 
circumscribed  by  human  content. 

On  the  supernatural  it  is  needless  to  enlarge  ;  for,  in 
whatever  form  the  beings  of  the  invisible  world  are 
supposed  to  visit  us,  they  are  immediately  connected 
in  the  mind  with  the  unknown  Infinite ;  whether  the 
faith  be  in  the  heart  or  in  the  imagination  ;  whether  they 
bubble  up  from  the  earth,  like  the  Witches  in  Macbeth, 
taking  shape  at  will,  or  self-dissolving  into  air,  and  no 
less  marvellous,  foreknowing  thoughts  ere  formed  in 
man  ;  or  like  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  an  unsubstantial 
shadow,  having  the  functions  of  life,  motion,  will,  and 
speech ;  a  fearful  mystery  invests  them  with  a  spell  not 
to  be  withstood ;  the  bewildered  imagination  follows 
like  a  child,  leaving  the  finite  world  for  one  unknown, 
till  it  aches  in  darkness,  trackless,  endless. 

Perhaps,  as  being  nearest  in  station  to  the  unsearch- 
able Author  of  all  things,  the  highest  example  of  this 
would  be  found  in  the  Angelic  Nature.  If  it  be  ob- 
jected, that  the  poets  have  not  always  so  represented  it, 
it  rests  with  them  to  show  cause  why  they  have  not. 
Milton,  no  doubt,  could  have  assigned  a  sufficient  rea- 
son in  the  time  chosen  for  his  poem, — that  of  the  crea- 
tion of  the  first  man,  when  his  intercourse  with  the 
highest  order  of  created  beings  was  not  only  essential 
to  the  plan  of  the  poem,  but  according  with  the  express 
6 


62 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


will  of  the  Creator:  hence,  he  might  have  considered 
it  no  violation  of  the  then  relation  between  man  and 
angels  to  assign  even  the  epithet  affable  to  the  arch- 
angel Raphael;  for  man  was  then  sinless,  and  in  all 
points  save  knowledge  a  fit  object  of  regard,  and  cer- 
tainly a  fit  pupil  to  his  heavenly  instructor.  But,  sup- 
pose the  poet,  throughout  his  work,  (as  in  the  process  of 
his  story  he  was  forced  to  do  near  the  end,)  —  suppose 
he  had  chosen,  assuming  the  philosopher,  to  assign  to 
Adam  the  altered  relation  of  one  of  his  fallen  posterity, 
how  could  he  have  endured  a  holy  spiritual  presence  ? 
To  be  consistent,  Adam  must  have  been  dumb  with 
awe,  incapable  of  holding  converse  such  as  is  describ- 
ed. Between  sinless  man  and  his  sinful  progeny,  the 
distance  is  immeasurable.  And  so,  too,  must  be  the  ef- 
fect on  the  latter,  in  such  a  presence ;  and  for  this  conclu- 
sion we  have  the  authority  of  Scripture,  in  the  dismay 
of  the  soldiers  at  the  Saviour's  sepulchre,  on  which 
more  directly.  If  there  be  no  like  effect  attending  the 
other  angelic  visits  recorded  in  Scripture,  such  as  those 
to  Lot  and  Abraham,  the  reason  is  obvious  in  the 
special  mission  to  those  individuals,  who  were  doubtless 
divinely  prepared  for  their  reception ;  for  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  the  mission  had  else  been  useless.  But 
with  the  Roman  soldiers,  where  there  was  no  such 
qualifying  circumstance,  the  case  was  different ;  indeed, 
it  was  in  striking  contrast  with  that  of  the  two  Marys, 
who,  though  struck  with  awe,  yet  being  led  there,  as 
witnesses,  by  the  Spirit,  were  not  so  overpowered. 

And  here,  as  the  Idea  of  Angels  is  universally  asso- 
ciated with  every  perfection  of  form,  may  naturally  oc- 
cur the  question  so  often  agitated,  —  namely,  whether 
Beauty  and  Sublimity  are,  under  any  circumstances, 
compatible.    To  us  it  seems  of  easy  solution.  For 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


63 


we  see  no  reason  why  Beauty,  as  the  condition  of  a 
subordinated  object  or  component  part,  may  not  inci- 
dentally enter  into  the  Sublime,  as  well  as  a  thousand 
other  conditions  of  opposite  characters,  which  pertain 
to  the  multifarious  assimilants  that  often  form  its  other 
components. 

When  Beauty  is  not  made  essential,  but  enters  as  a 
mere  contingent,  its  admission  or  rejection  is  a  matter 
of  indifference.  In  an  angel,  for  instance,  beauty  is  the 
condition  of  his  mere  form ;  but  the  angel  has  also  an 
intellectual  and  moral  or  spiritual  nature,  which  is  es- 
sentially paramount:  the  former  being  but  the  con- 
dition, so  to  speak,  of  his  visibility,  the  latter,  his  very 
life,  —  an  Essence  next  to  the  inconceivable  Giver  of 
life. 

Could  we  stand  in  the  presence  of  one  of  these  holy 
beings,  (if  to  stand  were  possible,)  what  of  the  Sub- 
lime in  this  lower  world  would  so  shake  us  ?  Though 
his  beauty  were  such  as  never  mortal  dreamed  of,  it 
would  be  as  nothing,  —  swallowed  up  as  darkness,  —  in 
the  awful,  spiritual  brightness  of  the  messenger  of  God. 
Even  as  the  soldiers  in  Scripture,  at  the  sepulchre  of 
the  Saviour,  we  should  fall  before  him, — we  should 
"  become,"  like  them,  "  as  dead  men." 

But  though  Milton  does  not  unveil  the  "  face  like 
lightning "  ;  and  though  the  angel  Raphael  is  made 
to  hold  converse  with  man,  and  the  "  severe  in  youthful 
beauty "  gives  even  the  individual  impress  to  Zephon, 
and  Michael  and  Abdiel  are  set  apart  in  their  prowess ; 
there  is  not  one  he  names  that  does  not  breathe  of 
Heaven,  that  is  not  encompassed  with  the  glory  of  the 
Infinite.  And  why  the  reader  is  not  overwhelmed  in 
their  supposed  presence  is  because  he  is  a  beholder 
throvgh  Adam,  —  through  him  also  a  listener ;  but  when- 


64 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ever  he  is  made,  by  the  poet's  spell,  to  forget  Adam, 
and  to  see,  as  it  were  in  his  own  person,  the  embattled 
hosts  ***** 

If  we  dwell  upon  Form  alone,  though  it  should  be  of 
surpassing  beauty,  the  idea  would  not  rise  above  that 
of  man,  for  this  is  conceivable  of  man :  but  the  mo- 
ment the  angelic  nature  is  touched,  we  have  the  higher 
ideas  of  supernal  intelligence  and  perfect  holiness,  to 
which  all  the  charms  and  graces  of  mere  form  immedi- 
ately become  subordinate,  and,  though  the  beauty  re- 
main, its  agency  is  comparatively  negative  under  the 
overpowering  transcendence  of  a  celestial  spirit. 

As  we  have  already  seen  that  the  Beautiful  is  limit- 
ed to  no  particular  form,  but  possesses  its  power  in 
some  mysterious  condition,  which  is  applicable  to  many 
distinct  objects;  in  like  manner  does  the  Sublime  in- 
clude within  its  sphere,  and  subdue  to  its  condition,  an 
indefinite  variety  of  objects,  with  their  distinctive  condi- 
tions ;  and  among  them  we  find  that  of  the  Beautiful, 
as  well  as,  to  a  certain  degree,  its  reverse,  so  that,  though 
we  may  truly  recognize  their  coexistence  in  the  same 
object,  it  is  not  possible  that  their  effect  upon  us  should 
be  otherwise  than  unequal,  and  that  the  higher  law 
should  not  subordinate  the  lower.  We  do  not  deny 
that  the  Beautiful  may,  so  to  speak,  mitigate  the  awful 
intensity  of  the  Sublime ;  but  it  cannot  change  its  char- 
acter, much  less  impart  its  own ;  the  one  will  still  be 
awful,  the  other,  of  itself,  never. 

When  at  Rome,  we  once  asked  a  foreigner,  who 
seemed  to  be  talking  somewhat  vaguely  on  the  subject, 
what  he  understood  by  the  Sublime.  His  answer  was, 
"  Le  plus  beau  " ;  making  it  only  a  matter  of  degree. 
Now  let  us  only  imagine  (if  we  can)  a  beautiful  earth- 
quake, or  a  beautiful  hurricane.    And  yet  the  foreign- 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


65 


er  is  not  alone  in  this.  D'Azzara,  the  biographer  of 
Mengs,  speaking  of  Beauty,  talks  of  "  this  sublime 
quality,"  and  in  another  place,  for  certain  reasons  as- 
signed, he  says,  "  The  grand  style  is  beautiful."  Nay, 
many  writers,  otherwise  of  high  authority,  seem  to  have 
taken  the  same  view ;  while  others  who  could  have 
had  no  such  notion,  having  used  the  words  Beauty 
and  the  Beautiful  in  an  allegorical  or  metaphorical 
sense,  have  sometimes  been  misinterpreted  literally. 
Hence  Winckelmann  reproaches  Michael  Angelo  for  his 
continual  talk  about  Beauty,  when  he  showed  nothing 
of  it  in  his  works.  But  it  is  very  evident  that  the  Bella 
and  Bellezza  of  Michael  Angelo  were  never  used  by  him 
in  a  literal  sense,  nor  intended  to  be  so  understood  by 
others  :  he  adopted  the  terms  solely  to  express  abstract 
Perfection,  which  he  allegorized  as  the  mistress  of  his 
mind,  to  whose  exclusive  worship  his  whole  life  was 
devoted.  Whether  it  was  the  most  appropriate  term 
he  could  have  chosen,  we  shall  not  inquire.  It  is  cer- 
tain, however,  that  the  literal  adoption  of  it  by  subse- 
quent writers  has  been  the  cause  of  much  confusion,  as 
well  as  vagueness. 

For  ourselves,  we  are  quite  at  a  loss  to  imagine  how 
a  notion  so  obviously  groundless  has  ever  had  a  single 
supporter ;  for,  if  a  distinct  effect  implies  a  distinct 
cause,  we  do  not  see  why  distinct  terms  should  not  be 
employed  to  express  the  difference,  or  how  the  legiti- 
mate term  for  one  can  in  any  way  be  applied  to  signify 
a  particular  degree  of  the  other.  Like  the  two  Dro- 
mios,  they  sometimes  require  a  conjurer  to  tell  which 
is  which.  If  only  Perfection,  which  is  a  generic  term 
implying  the  summit  of  all  things,  be  meant,  there  is 
surely  nothing  to  be  gained  (if  we  except  inlended  ob- 
scurity) by  substituting  a  specific  term  which  is  limited 
6* 


66 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


to  a  few.  We  speak  not  here  of  allegorical  or  met- 
aphorical propriety,  which  is  not  now  the  question, 
but  of  the  literal  and  didactic  ;  and  we  may  add,  that 
we  have  never  known  but  one  result  from  this  arbitrary 
union,  —  which  is,  to  procreate  words. 

In  further  illustration  of  our  position,  it  may  be 
well  here  to  notice  one  mistaken  source  of  the  Sublime, 
which  seems  to  have  been  sometimes  resorted  to,  both  in 
poems  and  pictures ;  namely,  in  the  sympathy  excited 
by  excruciating  bodily  suffering.  Suppose  a  man  on 
the  rack  to  be  placed  before  us,  —  perhaps  some  miser- 
able victim  of  the  Inquisition ;  the  cracking  of  his  joints 
is  made  frightfully  audible  ;  his  calamitous  "Ah ! "  goes 
to  our  marrow ;  then  the  cruel  precision  of  the  mechan- 
ical familiar,  as  he  lays  bare  to  the  sight  his  whole 
anatomy  of  horrors.  And  suppose,  too,  the  executioner 
compelled  to  his  task,  —  consequently  an  irresponsible 
agent,  whom  we  cannot  curse  ;  and,  finally,  that  these 
two  objects  compose  the  whole  scene.  What  could 
we  feel  but  an  agony  even  like  that  of  the  sufferer,  the 
only  difference  being  that  one  is  physical,  the  other 
mental  ?  And  this  is  all  that  mere  sympathy  has  any 
power  to  effect ;  it  has  led  us  to  its  extreme  point,  — 
our  flesh  creeps,  and  we  turn  away  with  almost  bodily 
sickness.  But  let  another  actor  be  added  to  the  drama 
in  the  presiding  Inquisitor,  the  cool  methodizer  of  this 
process  of  torture ;  in  an  instant  the  scene  is  changed, 
and,  strange  to  say,  our  feelings  become  less  painful,  — 
nay,  we  feel  a  momentary  interest,  —  from  an  instant 
revulsion  of  our  moral  nature :  we  are  lost  in  wonder 
at  the  excess  of  human  wickedness,  and  the  hateful 
wonder,  as  if  partaking  of  the  infinite,  now  distends 
the  faculties  to  their  utmost  tension  ;  for  who  can  set 
bounds  to  passion  when  it  seizes  the  whole  soul?  It  is 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


67 


as  the  soul  itself,  without  form  or  limit.  We  may  not 
think  even  of  the  after  judgment ;  we  become  ourselves 
justice,  and  we  award  a  hatred  commensurate  with  the 
sin,  so  indefinite  and  monstrous  that  we  stand  aghast 
at  our  own  judgment. 

Wliy  this  extreme  tension  of  the  mind,  when  thus 
outwardly  occasioned,  should  create  in  us  an  interest, 
we  know  not ;  but  such  is  the  fact,  and  we  are  not  only 
content  to  endure  it  for  a  time,  but  even  crave  it,  and 
give  to  the  feeling  the  epithet  sublime. 

We  do  not  deny  that  much  bodily  suffering  may  be 
admitted  with  effect  as  a  subordinate  agent,  when,  as 
in  the  example  last  added,  it  is  made  to  serve  as  a 
necessary  expositor  of  moral  deformity.  Then,  indeed, 
in  the  hands  of  a  great  artist,  it  becomes  one  of  the 
most  powerful  auxiliaries  to  a  sublime  end.  All  that 
we  contend  for  is  that  sympathy  alone  is  insufficient  as 
a  cause  of  sublimity. 

There  are  yet  other  sources  of  the  false  sublime,  (if 
we  may  so  call  it,)  which  are  sometimes  resorted  to  also 
by  poets  and  painters ;  such  as  the  horrible,  the  loath- 
some, the  hideous,  and  the  monstrous  :  these  form  the 
impassable  boundaries  to  the  true  Sublime.  Indeed, 
there  appears  to  be  in  almost  every  emotion  a  certain 
point  beyond  which  we  cannot  pass  without  recoil- 
ing, —  as  if  we  instinctively  shrunk  from  what  is  for- 
bidden to  our  nature. 

It  would  seem,  then,  that,  in  relation  to  man,  Beauty 
is  the  extreme  point,  or  last  summit,  of  the  natural  world, 
since  it  is  in  that  that  we  recognize  the  highest  emotion 
of  which  we  are  susceptible  from  the  purely  physical.  If 
we  ascend  thence  into  the  moral,  we  shall  find  its  influ- 
ence diminish  in  the  same  ratio  with  our  upward  prog- 
ress.   In  the  continuous  chain  of  creation  of  which  it 


68 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


forms  a  part,  the  link  above  it  where  the  moral  modifi- 
cation begins  seems  scarcely  changed,  yet  the  difference, 
though  slight,  demands  another  name,  and  the  nomen- 
clator  within  us  calls  it  Elegance  ;  in  the  next  connect- 
ing link,  the  moral  adjunct  becomes  more  predominant, 
and  we  call  it  Majesty  ;  in  the  next,  the  physical  becomes 
still  fainter,  and  we  call  the  union  Grandeur ;  in  the  next, 
it  seems  almost  to  vanish,  and  a  new  form  rises  before 
us,  so  mysterious,  so  undefined  and  elusive  to  the  senses, 
that  we  turn,  as  if  for  its  more  distinct  image,  within 
ourselves,  and  there,  with  wonder,  amazement,  awe,  we 
see  it  filling,  distending,  stretching  every  faculty,  till, 
like  the  Giant  of  Otranto,  it  seems  almost  to  burst  the 
imagination :  under  this  strange  confluence  of  opposite 
emotions,  this  terrible  pleasure,  we  call  the  awful  form 
Sublimity.  This  was  the  still,  small  voice  that  shook 
the  Prophet  on  Horeb ;  —  though  small  to  his  ear,  it  was 
more  than  his  imagination  could  contain ;  he  could  not 
hear  it  again  and  live. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  we  have  enumerated  all 
the  forms  of  gradation  between  the  Beautiful  and  the 
Sublime ;  such  was  not  our  purpose  ;  it  is  sufficient  to 
have  noted  the  most  prominent,  leaving  the  intermedi- 
ate modifications  to  be  supplied  (as  they  can  readily 
be)  by  the  reader.  If  we  descend  from  the  Beautiful, 
we  shall  pass  in  like  manner  through  an  equal  varie- 
ty of  forms  gradually  modified  by  the  grosser  material 
influences,  as  the  Handsome,  the  Pretty,  the  Comely, 
the  Plain,  &c,  till  we  fall  to  the  Ugly. 

There  ends  the  chain  of  pleasurable  excitement ;  but 
not  the  chain  of  Forms ;  which,  taking  now  as  if  a  lit- 
eral curve,  again  bends  upward,  till,  meeting  the  de- 
scending extreme  of  the  moral,  it  seems  to  complete 
the  mighty  circle.    And  in  this  dark  segment  will  be 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


69 


found  the  startling  union  of  deepening  discords,  —  still 
deepening,  as  it  rises  from  the  Ugly  to  the  Loathsome, 
the  Horrible,  the  Frightful,*  the  Appalling. 

As  we  follow  the  chain  through  this  last  region  of 
disease,  misery,  and  sin,  of  embodied  Discord,  and  feel, 
as  we  must,  in  the  mutilated  affinities  of  its  revolting 
forms,  their  fearful  relation  to  this  fair,  harmonious 
creation,  —  how  does  the  awful  fact,  in  these  its 
breathing  fragments,  speak  to  us  of  a  fallen  world ! 

As  the  living  centre  of  this  stupendous  circle  stands 
the  Soul  of  Man ;  the  conscious  Reality,  to  which  the 
vast  inclosure  is  but  the  symbol.  How  vast,  then,  his 
being!  If  space  could  measure  it,  the  remotest  star 
would  fall  within  its  limits.  Well,  then,  may  he  trem- 
ble to  essay  it  even  in  thought ;  for  where  must  it  car- 
ry him,  —  that  winged  messenger,  fleeter  than  light  ? 
Where  but  to  the  confines  of  the  Infinite ;  even  to  the 
presence  of  the  unutterable  Life,  on  which  nothing 
finite  can  look  and  live  ? 

Finally,  we  shall  conclude  our  Discourse  with  a  few 
words  on  the  master  Principle,  which  we  have  sup- 
posed to  be,  by  the  will  of  the  Creator,  the  realizing 
life  to  all  things  fair  and  true  and  good :  and  more 
especially  would  we  revert  to  its  spiritual  purity,  em- 
phatically manifested  through  all  its  manifold  opera- 
tions, —  so  impossible  of  alliance  with  any  thing  sordid, 
or  false,  or  wicked,  —  so  unapprehensible,  even,  except 
for  its  own  most  sinless  sake.  Indeed,  we  cannot  look 
upon  it  as  other  than  the  universal  and  eternal  witness 
of  God's  goodness  and  love,  to  draw  man  to  himself, 
and  to  testify  to  the  meanest,  most  obliquitous  mind,  — 
at  least  once  in  life,  be  it  though  in  childhood,  —  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  good  ivithout  self. 


*  The  Frightful  is  not  the  Terrible,  though  often  confounded  with  it. 


70 


LECTURES   ON  ART* 


It  will  be  remembered,  that,  in  all  the  various  exam- 
ples adduced,  in  which  we  have  endeavoured  to  illustrate 
the  operation  of  Harmony,  there  was  but  one  character  to 
all  its  effects,  whatever  the  difference  in  the  objects  that 
occasioned  them ;  that  it  was  ever  untinged  with  any 
personal  taint :  and  we  concluded  thence  its  supernal 
source.  We  may  now  advance  another  evidence  still 
more  conclusive  of  its  spiritual  origin,  namely,  in  the 
fact,  that  it  cannot  be  realized  in  the  Human  Being 
quoad  himself.  With  the  fullest  consciousness  of  the 
possession  of  this  principle,  and  with  the  power  to 
realize  it  in  other  objects,  he  has  still  no  power  in  rela- 
tion to  himself,  —  that  is,  to  become  the  object  to  him- 
self. 

Now,  as  the  condition  of  Harmony,  so  far  as  we  can 
know  it  through  its  effect,  is  that  of  irnpletion,  where 
nothing  can  be  added  or  taken  away,  it  is  evident  that 
such  a  condition  can  never  be  realized  by  the  mind  in 
itself.  And  yet  the  desire  to  this  end  is  as  evidently 
implied  in  that  incessant,  yet  unsatisfying  activity, 
which,  under  all  circumstances,  is  an  imperative,  uni- 
versal law  of  our  nature. 

It  might  seem  needless  to  enlarge  on  what  must  be 
generally  felt  as  an  obvious  truth ;  still,  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  offer  a  few  remarks,  by  way  of  bringing  it, 
though  a  truism,  more  distinctly  before  us.  In  all  ages 
the  majority  of  mankind  have  been  more  or  less  com- 
pelled to  some  kind  of  exertion  for  their  mere  subsist- 
ence. Like  all  compulsion,  this  has  no  doubt  been  con- 
sidered a  hardship.  Yet  we  never  find,  when  by  their 
own  industry,  or  any  fortunate  circumstance,  they  have 
been  relieved  from  this  exigency,  that  any  one  individu- 
al has  been  contented  with  doing  nothing.  Some,  in- 
deed, before  their  liberation,  have  conceived  of  idleness 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


71 


as  a  kind  of  synonyme  with  happiness ;  but  a  short 
experience  has  never  failed  to  prove  it  no  less  remote 
from  that  desirable  state.  The  most  offensive  employ- 
ments, for  the  want  of  a  better,  have  often  been  resum- 
ed, to  relieve  the  mind  from  the  intolerable  load  of  noth- 
ing, —  the  heaviest  of  all  weights,  —  as  it  needs  must 
be  to  an  immortal  spirit :  for  the  mind  cannot  stop,  ex- 
cept it  be  in  a  mad-house ;  there,  indeed,  it  may  rest, 
or  rather  stagnate,  on  one  thought,  —  its  little  circle, 
perhaps  of  misery.  From  the  very  moment  of  con- 
sciousness, the  active  Principle  begins  to  busy  itself 
with  the  things  about  it :  it  shows  itself  in  the  infant, 
stretching  its  little  hands  towards  the  candle;  in  the 
schoolboy,  filling  up,  if  alone,  his  play-hour  with  the 
mimic  toils  of  after  age ;  and  so  on,  through  every 
stage  and  condition  of  life ;  from  the  wealthy  spend- 
thrift, beggaring  himself  at  the  gaming-table  for  em- 
ployment, to  the  poor  prisoner  in  the  Bastile,  who,  for 
the  want  of  something  to  occupy  his  thoughts,  overcame 
the  antipathy  of  his  nature,  and  found  his  companion  in 
a  spider.  Nay,  were  there  need,  we  might  draw  out  the 
catalogue  till  it  darkened  with  suicide.  But  enough  has 
been  said  to  show,  that,  aside  from  guilt,  a  more  terrible 
fiend  has  hardly  been  imagined  than  the  little  word 
Nothing,  when  embodied  and  realized  as  the  master  of 
the  mind.  And  well  for  the  world  that  it  is  so  ;  since 
to  this  wise  law  of  our  nature,  to  say  nothing  of  con- 
veniences, we  owe  the  endless  sources  of  innocent  en- 
joyment with  which  the  industry  and  ingenuity  of  man 
have  supplied  us. 

But  the  wisdom  of  the  law  in  question  is  not  merely 
that  it  is  a  preventive  to  the  mind  preying  on  itself ; 
we  see  in  it  a  higher  purpose,  —  no  less  than  what  in- 
volves the  developement  of  the  human  being  ;  and,  if  we 


72 


LECTURES   ON  ART* 


look  to  its  final  bearing,  it  is  of  the  deepest  import.  It 
might  seem  at  first  a  paradox,  that,  the  natural  condition 
of  the  mind  being  averse  to  inactivity,  it  should  still 
have  so  strong  a  desire  for  rest ;  but  a  little  reflection 
will  show  that  this  involves  no  real  contradiction.  The 
mind  only  mistakes  the  name  of  its  object,  neither  rest 
nor  action  being  its  real  aim ;  for  in  a  state  of  rest  it 
desires  action,  and  in  a  state  of  action,  rest.  Now  all 
action  supposes  a  purpose,  which  purpose  can  consist 
of  but  one  of  two  things ;  either  the  attainment  of 
some  immediate  object  as  its  completion,  or  the  caus- 
ing of  one  or  more  future  acts,  that  shall  follow  as  a 
consequence.  But  whether  the  action  terminates  in  an 
immediate  object,  or  serves  as  the  procreating  cause  of 
an  indefinite  series  of  acts,  it  must  have  some  ultimate 
object  in  which  it  ends, —  or  is  to  end.  Even  suppos- 
ing such  a  series  of  acts  to  be  continued  through  a 
whole  life,  and  yet  remain  incomplete,  it  would  not 
alter  the  case.  It  is  well  known  that  many  such  series 
have  employed  the  minds  of  mathematicians  and  as- 
tronomers to  their  last  hour ;  nay,  that  those  acts  have 
been  taken  up  by  others,  and  continued  through  suc- 
cessive generations  :  still,  whether  the  point  be  arrived 
at  or  no,  there  must  have  been  an  end  in  contemplation. 

Now  no  one  can  believe  that,  in  similar  cases,  any 
man  would  voluntarily  devote  all  his  days  to  the  add- 
ing link  after  link  to  an  endless  chain,  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  labor.  It  is  true  he  may  be  aware  of  the 
wholesomeness  of  such  labor  as  one  of  the  means  of 
cheerfulness ;  but,  if  he  have  no  further  aim,  his  being 
aware  of  this  result  makes  an  equable  flow  of  spirits 
a  positive  object.  Without  hope,  uncompelled  labor 
is  an  impossibility ;  and  hope  implies  an  object.  Nor 
would  the  veriest  idler,  who  passes  a  whole  day  in 


INTRODUCTORY  DISCOURSE. 


73 


whittling  a  stick,  if  he  could  be  brought  to  look  into 
himself,  deny  it.  So  far  from  having  no  object,  he 
would  and  must  acknowledge  that  he  was  in  fact  hop- 
ing to  relieve  himself  of  an  oppressive  portion  of  time 
by  whittling  away  its  minutes  and  hours.  Here  we 
have  an  extreme  instance  of  that  which  constitutes  the 
real  business  of  life,  from  the  most  idle  to  the  most  in- 
dustrious ;  namely,  to  attain  to  a  satisfying  stale. 

But  no  one  will  assert  that  such  a  state  was  ever  a 
consequence  of  the  attainment  of  any  object,  however 
exalted.  And  why  ?  Because  the  motive  of  action 
is  left  behind,  and  we  have  nothing  before  us. 

Something  to  desire,  something  to  look  forward  to, 
we  must  have,  or  we  perish,  —  even  of  suicidal  rest.  If 
we  find  it  not  here  in  the  world  about  us,  it  must  be 
sought  for  in  another;  to  which,  as  we  conceive,  that 
secret  ruler  of  the  soul,  the  inscrutable,  ever-present 
spirit  of  Harmony,  for  ever  points.  Nor  is  it  essential 
that  the  thought  of  harmony  should  even  cross  the 
mind;  for  a  w^ant  may  be  felt  without  any  distinct  con- 
sciousness of  the  form  of  that  which  is  desired.  And, 
for  the  most  part,  it  is  only  in  this  negative  way  that  its 
influence  is  acknowledged.  But  this  is  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  universal  longing,  whether  definite  or 
indefinite,  and  the  consequent  universal  disappoint- 
ment. 

We  have  said  that  man  cannot  to  himself  become 
the  object  of  Harmony,  —  that  is,  find  its  proper  correla- 
tive in  himself  ;  and  we  have  seen  that,  in  his  present 
state,  the  position  is  true.  How  is  it,  then,  in  the  world 
of  spirit  ?  Who  can  answer  ?  And  yet,  perhaps,  —  if 
without  irreverence  we  might  hazard  the  conjecture,  — 
as  a  finite  creature,  having  no  centre  in  himself  on 
which  to  revolve,  may  it  not  be  that  his  true  correlative 
7 


n 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


will  there  be  revealed  (if,  indeed,  it  be  not  before)  to  the 
disembodied  man,  in  the  Being  that  made  him  ?  And 
may  it  not  also  follow,  that  the  Principle  we  speak  of 
will  cease  to  be  potential,  and  flow  out,  as  it  were,  and 
harmonize  with  the  eternal  form  of  Hope,  —  even  that 
Hope  whose  living  end  is  in  the  unapproachable 
Infinite  ? 

Let  us  suppose  this  form  of  hope  to  be  taken  away 
from  an  immortal  being  who  has  no  self-satisfying 
power  within  him,  what  would  be  his  condition  ?  A 
conscious,  interminable  vacuum,  were  such  a  thing 
possible,  would  but  faintly  image  it.  Hope,  then, 
though  in  its  nature  unrealizable,  is  not  a  mere  notion ; 
for  so  long  as  it  continues  hope,  it  is  to  the  mind  an 
object  and  an  object  to  be  realized;  so,  where  its  form 
i$  eternal,  it  cannot  but  be  to  it  an  ever-during  object. 
Hence  we  may  conceive  of  a  never-ending  approxima- 
tion to  what  can  never  be  realized. 

From  this  it  would  appear,  that,  while  we  cannot 
to  ourselves  become  the  object  of  Harmony,  it  is 
nevertheless  certain,  from  the  universal  desire  so  to 
realize  it,  that  we  cannot  suppress  the  continual 
impulse  of  this  paramount  Principle ;  which,  there- 
fore, as  it  seems  to  us,  must  have  a  double  purpose; 
first,  by  its  outward  manifestation,  which  we  all  recog- 
nize, to  confirm  its  reality,  and  secondly,  to  convince 
the  mind  that  its  true  object  is  not  merely  out  of,  but 
above,  itself,  —  and  only  to  be  found  in  the  Infinite 
Creator. 


ART. 


In  treating  on  Art,  which,  in  its  highest  sense,  and 
more  especially  in  relation  to  Painting  and  Sculpture, 
is  the  subject  proposed  for  our  present  examination,  the 
first  question  that  occurs  is,  In  what  consists  its  peculiar 
character  ?  or  rather,  What  are  the  characteristics  that 
distinguish  it  from  Nature,  which  it  professes  to  imitate  ? 

To  this  we  reply,  that  Art  is  characterized,  — 

First,  by  Originality. 

Secondly,  by  what  we  shall  call  Human  or  Poetic 
Truth;  which  is  the  verifying  principle  by  which  we 
recognize  the  first. 

Thirdly,  by  Invention ;  the  product  of  the  Imagina- 
tion, as  grounded  on  the  first,  and  verified  by  the  sec- 
ond. And, 

Fourthly,  by  Unity,  the  synthesis  of  all. 

As  the  first  step  to  the  right  understanding  of  any 
discourse  is  a  clear  apprehension  of  the  terms  used,  we 
add,  that  by  Originality  we  mean  any  thing  (admitted 
by  the  mind  as  true)  which  is  peculiar  to  the  Author, 
and  which  distinguishes  his  production  from  that  of  all 
others ;  by  Human  or  Poetic  Truth,  that  which  may  be 
said  to  exist  exclusively  in  and  for  the  mind,  and  as 
contradistinguished  from  the  truth  of  things  in  the 


76 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


natural  or  external  world;  by  Invention,  any  unprac- 
tised mode  of  presenting  a  subject,  whether  by  the  com- 
bination of  entire  objects  already  known,  or  by  the 
union  and  modification  of  known  but  fragmentary  parts 
into  new  and  consistent  forms ;  and,  lastly,  by  Unity, 
such  an  agreement  and  interdependence  of  all  the 
parts,  as  shall  constitute  a  whole. 

It  will  be  our  attempt  to  show,  that,  by  the  presence 
or  absence  of  any  one  of  these  characteristics,  we  shall 
be  able  to  affirm  or  deny  in  respect  to  the  pretension  of 
any  object  as  a  work  of  Art ;  and  also  that  we  shall 
find  within  ourselves  the  corresponding  law,  or  by 
whatever  word  we  choose  to  designate  it,  by  which 
each  will  be  recognized;  that  is,  in  the  degree  propor- 
tioned to  the  developement,  or  active  force,  of  the  law 
so  judging. 

Supposing  the  reader  to  have  gone  along  with  us  in 
what  has  been  said  of  the  Universal,  in  our  Prelim- 
inary Discourse,  and  as  assenting  to  the  position,  that 
any  faculty,  law,  or  principle,  which  can  be  shown  to 
be  essential  to  any  one  mind,  must  necessarily  be  also 
predicated  of  every  other  sound  mind,  even  where  the 
particular  faculty  or  law  is  so  feebly  developed  as 
apparently  to  amount  to  its  absence,  in  which  case  it- 
is  inferred  potentially,  —  we  shall  now  assume,  on  the 
same  grounds,  that  the  originating  cause,  notwithstand- 
ing its  apparent  absence  in  the  majority  of  men,  is  an 
essential  reality  in  the  condition  of  the  Human  Being ; 
its  potential  existence  in  all  being  of  necessity  affirm- 
ed from  its  existence  in  one. 

Assuming,  then,  its  reality,  —  or  rather  leaving  it  to 
be  evidenced  from  its  known  effects,  —  we  proceed  to 
inquire  in  tvhat  consists  this  originating  power. 

And,  first,  as  to  its  most  simple  form.    If  it  be  true, 


ART. 


77 


(as  we  hope  to  set  forth  more  at  large  in  a  future  dis- 
course,) that  no  two  minds  were  ever  found  to  be 
identical,  there  must  then  in  every  individual  mind  be 
something  which  is  not  in  any  other.  And,  if  this  un- 
known something  is  also  found  to  give  its  peculiar  hue, 
so  to  speak,  to  every  impression  from  outward  objects, 
it  seems  but  a  natural  inference,  that,  whatever  it  be,  it 
must  possess  a  pervading  force  over  the  entire  mind,  — 
at  least,  in  relation  to  what  is  external.  But,  though 
this  may  truly  be  affirmed  of  man  generally,  from  its 
evidence  in  any  one  person,  we  shall  be  far  from  the 
fact,  should  we  therefore  affirm,  that,  otherwise  than 
potentially,  the  power  of  outwardly  manifesting  it  is 
also  universal.  We  know  that  it  is  not,  —  and  our  daily 
experience  proves  that  the  power  of  reproducing  or 
giving  out  the  individualized  impressions  is  widely 
different  in  different  men.  With  some  it  is  so  feeble 
as  apparently  never  to  act;  and,  so  far  as  our  subject, 
is  concerned,  it  may  practically  be  said  not  to  exist ;  of 
which  we  have  abundant  examples  in  other  mental 
phenomena,  where  an  imperfect  activity  often  renders 
the  existence  of  some  essential  faculty  a  virtual  nullity. 
When  it  acts  in  the  higher  degrees,  so  as  to  make  an- 
other see  or  feel  as  the  Individual  saw  or  felt,  —  this, 
in  relation  to  Art,  is  what  we  mean,  in  its  strictest 
sense,  by  Originality.  He,  therefore,  who  possesses  the 
power  of  presenting  to  another  the  precise  images  or 
emotions  as  they  existed  in  himself,  presents  that 
which  can  be  found  nowhere  else,  and  was  first  found 
by  and  within  himself ;  and,  however  light  or  trifling, 
where  these  are  true  as  to  his  own  mind,  their  author  is 
so  far  an  originator. 

But  let  us  take  an  example,  and  suppose  two  por- 
traits ;  simple  heads,  without  accessories,  that  is,  with 


78 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


blank  backgrounds,  such  as  we  often  see,  where  no 
attempt  is  made  at  composition ;  and  both  by  artists  of 
equal  talent,  employing  the  same  materials,  and  con- 
ducting their  work  according  to  the  same  technical 
process.  We  will  also  suppose  ourselves  acquainted 
with  the  person  represented,  with  whom  to  compare 
them.  Who,  that  has  ever  made  a  similar  comparison, 
will  expect  to  find  them  identical  ?  On  the  contrary, 
though  in  all  respects  equal,  in  execution,  likeness,  &c, 
we  shall  still  perceive  a  certain  exclusive  something  that 
will  instantly  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other,  and 
both  from  the  original.  And  yet  they  shall  both  seem 
to  us  true.  But  they  will  be  true  to  us  also  in  a  double 
sense  ;  namely,  as  to  the  living  original  and  as  to  the 
individuality  of  the  different  painters.  Where  such  is 
the  result,  both  artists  must  originate,  inasmuch  as 
they  both  outwardly  realize  the  individual  image  of 
their  distinctive  minds. 

Nor  can  the  truth  they  present  be  ascribed  to  the 
technic  process,  which  we  have  supposed  the  same  with 
each ;  as,  on  such  a  supposition,  with  their  equal  skill, 
the  result  must  have  been  identical.  No  ;  by  whatev- 
er it  is  that  one  man's  mental  impression,  or  his  mode 
of  thought,  is  made  to  differ  from  another's,  it  is  that 
something,  which  our  imaginary  artists  have  here  trans- 
ferred to  their  pencil,  that  makes  them  different,  yet 
both  original. 

Now,  whether  the  medium  through  which  the  im- 
pressions, conceptions,  or  emotions  of  the  mind  are 
thus  externally  realized  be  that  of  colors,  words,  or 
any  thing  else,  this  mysterious  though  certain  principle 
is,  as  we  believe,  the  true  and  only  source  of  all  origi- 
nality. 

In  the  power  of  assimilating  what  is  foreign,  or  ex- 


ART. 


79 


ternal,  to  our  own  particular  nature  consists  the  indl* 
vidualizing  law,  and  in  the  power  of  reproducing  what 
is  thus  modified  consists  the  originating  cause. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  an  opposite  example,  —  to  a  mere 
mechanical  copy  of  some  natural  object,  where  the 
marks  in  question  are  wholly  wanting.  Will  any  one 
be  truly  affected  by  it  ?  We  think  not ;  we  do  not  say 
that  he  will  not  praise  it, —  this  he  may  do  from  various 
motives  ;  but  his  feeling  —  if  we  may  so  name  the  in- 
dex of  the  law  within  —  will  not  be  called  forth  to  any 
spontaneous  correspondence  with  the  object  before 
him. 

But  why  talk  of  feeling,  says  the  pseudo-connoisseur, 
where  we  should  only,  or  at  least  first,  bring  knowl- 
edge ?  This  is  the  common  cant  of  those  who  become 
critics  for  the  sake  of  distinction.  Let  the  Artist  avoid 
them,  if  he  would  not  disfranchise  himself  in  the  sup- 
pression of  that  uncompromising  test  within  him,  which 
is  the  only  sure  guide  to  the  truth  without. 

It  is  a  poor  ambition  to  desire  the  office  of  a  judge 
merely  for  the  sake  of  passing  sentence.  But  such  an 
ambition  is  not  likely  to  possess  a  person  of  true  sensi- 
bility. There  are  some,  however,  in  whom  there  is  no 
deficiency  of  sensibility,  yet  who,  either  from  self-dis- 
trust, or  from  some  mistaken  notion  of  Art,  are  easily 
persuaded  to  give  up  a  right  feeling,  in  exchange  for 
what  they  may  suppose  to  be  knowledge,  —  the  barren 
knowledge  of  faults ;  as  if  there  could  be  a  human  pro- 
duction without  them !  Nevertheless,  there  is  little  to  be 
apprehended  from  any  conventional  theory,  by  one  who 
is  forewarned  of  its  mere  negative  power,  —  that  it  can, 
at  best,  only  suppress  feeling ;  for  no  one  ever  was,  or 
ever  can  be,  argued  into  a  real  liking  for  what  he  has  once 
felt  to  be  false.   But,  where  the  feeling  is  genuine,  and 


80 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


not  the  mere  reflex  of  a  popular  notion,  so  far  as  it  goes 
it  must  be  true.  Let  no  one,  therefore,  distrust  it,  to  take 
counsel  of  his  head,  when  he  finds  himself  standing  be- 
fore a  work  of  Art.  Does  he  feel  its  truth  ?  is  the  only 
question,  —  if,  indeed,  the  impertinence  of  the  under- 
standing should  then  propound  one ;  which  we  think  it 
will  not,  where  the  feeling  is  powerful.  To  such  a  one, 
the  characteristic  of  Art  upon  which  we  are  now  dis- 
coursing will  force  its  way  with  the  power  of  light ;  nor 
will  he  ever  be  in  danger  of  mistaking  a  mechanical 
copy  for  a  living  imitation. 

But  we  sometimes  hear  of  "  faithful  transcripts,"  nay, 
of  fac-similes.  If  by  these  be  implied  neither  more  nor 
less  than  exists  in  their  originals,  they  must  still,  in  that 
case,  find  their  true  place  in  the  dead  category  of  Copy. 
Yet  we  need  not  be  detained  by  any  inquiry  concern- 
ing the  merits  of  a  fac-simile,  since  we  firmly  deny  that 
a  fac-simile,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term,  is  a  thing 
possible. 

That  an  absolute  identity  between  any  natural  ob- 
ject and  its  represented  image  is  a  thing  impossible, 
will  hardly  be  questioned  by  any  one  who  thinks, 
and  will  give  the  subject  a  moment's  reflection ;  and 
the  difficulty  lies  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  one  being 
the  work  of  the  Creator,  and  the  other  of  the  creature. 
We  shall  therefore  assume  as  a  fact,  the  eternal  and 
insuperable  difference  between  Art  and  Nature.  That 
our  pleasure  from  Art  is  nevertheless  similar,  not  to  say 
equal,  to  that  which  we  derive  from  Nature,  is  also  a 
fact  established  by  experience ;  to  account  for  which  we 
are  necessarily  led  to  the  admission  of  another  fact, 
namely,  that  there  exists  in  Art  a  peculiar  something 
which  we  receive  as  equivalent  to  the  admitted  differ- 
ence.   Now,  whether  we  call  this  equivalent,  individu- 


ART. 


81 


alized  truth,  or  human  or  poetic  truth,  it  matters  not ; 
we  know  by  its  effects,  that  some  such  principle  does 
exist,  and  that  it  acts  upon  us,  and  in  a  way  corre- 
sponding to  the  operation  of  that  which  we  call  Truth 
and  Life  in  the  natural  world.  Of  the  various  laws 
growing  out  of  this  principle,  which  take  the  name  of 
Rules  when  applied  to  Art,  we  shall  have  occasion  to 
speak  in  a  future  discourse.  At  present  we  shall  con- 
fine ourselves  to  the  inquiry,  how  far  the  difference 
alluded  to  may  be  safely  allowed  in  any  work  profess- 
ing to  be  an  imitation  of  Nature. 

The  fact,  that  truth  may  subsist  with  a  very  consid- 
erable admixture  of  falsehood,  is  too  well  known  to 
require  an  argument.  However  reprehensible  such  an 
admixture  may  be  in  morals,  it  becomes  in  Art,  from  the 
limited  nature  of  our  powers,  a  matter  of  necessity. 

For  the  same  reason,  even  the  realizing  of  a  thought, 
or  that  which  is  properly  and  exclusively  human,  must 
ever  be  imperfect.  If  Truth,  then,  form  but  the  greater 
proportion,  it  is  quite  as  much  as  we  may  reasonably 
look  for  in  a  work  of  Art.  But  why,  it  may  be  asked, 
where  the  false  predominates,  do  we  still  derive  pleas- 
ure ?  Simply  because  of  the  Truth  that  remains.  If  it 
be  further  demanded,  What  is  the  minimum  of  truth 
in  order  to  a  pleasurable  effect  ?  we  reply,  So  much 
only  as  will  cause  us  to  feel  that  the  truth  exists.  It 
is  this  feeling  alone  that  determines,  not  only  the  true, 
but  the  degrees  of  truth,  and  consequently  the  degrees 
of  pleasure. 

Where  no  such  feeling  is  awakened,  and  supposing 
no  deficiency  in  the  recipient,  he  may  safely,  from  its 
absence,  pronounce  the  work  false ;  nor  could  any  in- 
genious theory  of  the  understanding  convince  him  to 
the  contrary.    He  may,  indeed,  as  some  are  wont  to 


82 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


do,  make  a  random  guess,  and  call  the  work  true ;  but 
he  can  never  so  feel  it  by  any  effort  of  reasoning.  But 
may  not  men  differ  as  to  their  impressions  of  truth  ? 
Certainly  as  to  the  degrees  of  it,  and  in  this  according 
to  their  sensibility,  in  which  we  know  that  men  are  not 
equal.  By  sensibility  here  we  mean  the  power  or  ca- 
pacity of  receiving  impressions.  All  men,  indeed,  with 
equal  organs,  may  be  said  in  a  certain  sense  to  see 
alike.  But  will  the  same  natural  object,  conveyed 
through  these  organs,  leave  the  same  impression? 
The  fact  is  otherwise.  What,  then,  causes  the  differ- 
ence, if  it  be  not  (as  before  observed)  a  peculiar  some- 
thing in  the  individual  mind,  that  modifies  the  image  ? 
If  so,  there  must  of  necessity  be  in  every  true  work  of 
Art  —  if  we  may  venture  the  expression  — another,  or 
distinctive,  truth.  To  recognize  this,  therefore,. —  as  we 
.  have  elsewhere  endeavoured  to  show,  —  supposes  in  the 
recipient  something  akin  to  it.  And,  though  it  be  in 
reality  but  a  sign  of  life,  it  is  still  a  sign  of  which  we 
no  sooner  receive  the  impress,  than,  by  a  law  of  our 
mind,  we  feel  it  to  be  acting  upon  our  thoughts  and 
sympathies,  without  our  knowing  how  or  wherefore. 
Admitting,  therefore,  the  corresponding  instinct,  or 
whatever  else  it  may  be  called,  to  vary  in  men,  — 
which  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  —  the  solution  of 
their  unequal  impression  appears  at  once.  Hence  it 
would  be  no  extravagant  metaphor,  should  we  affirm 
that  some  persons  see  more  with  their  minds  than 
others  with  their  eyes.  Nay,  it  must  be  obvious  to  all 
who  are  conversant  with  Art,  that  much,  if  not  the 
greater  part,  in  its  higher  branches  is  especially  ad- 
dressed to  this  mental  vision.  And  it  is  very  certain, 
if  there  were  no  truth  beyond  the  reach  of  the  senses, 
that  little  would  remain  to  us  of  what  we  now  consider 
our  highest  and  most  refined  pleasure< 


ART. 


83 


But  it  must  not  be  inferred  that  originality  consists 
in  any  contradiction  to  Nature ;  for,  were  this  allowed 
and  carried  out,  it  would  bring  us  to  the  conclusion,  that, 
the  greater  the  contradiction,  the  higher  the  Art.  "We 
insist  only  on  the  modification  of  the  natural  by  the  per- 
sonal ;  for  Nature  is,  and  ever  must  be,  at  least  the  sen- 
suous ground  of  all  Art :  and  where  the  outward  and 
inward  are  so  united  that  we  cannot  separate  them,  there 
shall  we  find  the  perfection  of  Art.  So  complete  a  union 
has,  perhaps,  never  been  accomplished,  and  may  be  im- 
possible ;  it  is  certain,  however,  that  no  approach  to  ex- 
cellence can  ever  be  made,  if  the  idea  of  such  a  union 
be  not  constantly  looked  to  by  the  artist  as  his  ultimate 
aim.  Nor  can  the  idea  be  admitted  without  supposing 
a  third  as  the  product  of  the  two,  —  which  we  call  Art ; 
between  which  and  Nature,  in  its  strictest  sense,  there 
must  ever  be  a  difference  ;  indeed,  a  difference  with  re- 
semblance is  that  which  constitutes  its  essential  con- 
dition. 

It  has  doubtless  been  observed,  that,  in  this  inquiry 
concerning  the  nature  and  operation  of  the  first  charac- 
teristic, the  presence  of  the  second,  or  verifying  princi- 
ple, has  been  all  along  implied ;  nor  could  it  be  other- 
wise, because  of  their  mutual  dependence.  Still  more 
will  its  active  agency  be  supposed  in  our  examination 
of  the  third,  namely,  Invention.  But  before  we  pro- 
ceed to  that,  the  paramount  index  of  the  highest  art,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  obtain,  if  possible,  some  distinct 
apprehension  of  what  we  have  termed  Poetic  Truth  j 
to  which,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  also  prefixed  the 
epithet  Human,  our  object  therein  being  to  prepare  the 
mind,  by  a  single  word,  for  its  peculiar  sphere  ;  and  we 
think  it  applicable  also  for  a  more  important  reason, 
namely,  that  this  kind  of  Truth  is  the  true  ground  of  the 


84 


LECTURES   OX  ART. 


poetical.  —  for  in  what  consists  the  poetry  of  the  natu- 
ral world,  if  not  in  the  sentiment  and  reacting  life  it 
receives  from  the  human  fancy  and  affections  ?  And, 
until  it  can  be  shown  that  sentiment  and  fancy  are 
also  shared  by  the  brute  creation,  this  seeming  efflu- 
ence from  the  beautiful  in  nature  must  rightfully 
revert  to  man.  What,  for  instance,  can  we  suppose 
to  be  the  effect  of  the  purple  haze  of  a  summer  sun- 
set on  the  cows  and  sheep,  or  even  on  the  more  deli- 
cate inhabitants  of  the  air?  From  what  we  know  of 
their  habits,  Ave  cannot  suppose  more  than  the  mere 
physical  enjoyment  of  its  genial  temperature.  But 
how  is  it  with  the  poet,  whom  we  shall  suppose  an  ob- 
ject in  the  same  scene,  stretched  on  the  same  bank  with 
the  ruminating  cattle,  and  basking  in  the  same  light 
that  flickers  from  the  skimming  birds.  Does  he  feel 
nothing  more  than  the  genial  warmth  ?  Ask  him,  and 
he  perhaps  will  say,  —  u  This  is  my  sours  horn* :  this  pur- 
pled air  the  heart's  atmosphere,  melting  by  its  breath 
the  sealed  fountains  of  love,  which  the  cold  common- 
place of  the  world  had  frozen :  I  feel  them  gushing 
forth  on  every  thing  around  me;  and  how  worthy  of 
love  now  appear  to  me  these  innocent  animals,  nay, 
these  whispering  leaves,  that  seem  to  kiss  the  passing 
air,  and  blush  the  while  at  their  own  fondness  !  Surely 
they  are  happy,  and  grateful  too  that  they  are  so  ;  for 
hark !  how  the  little  birds  send  up  their  song  of  praise! 
and  see  how  the  waving  trees  and  waving  grass,  in 
mute  accordance,  keep  time  with  the  hymn  !  " 

This  is  but  one  of  the  thousand  forms  in  which  the 
human  spirit  is  wont  to  effuse  itself  on  the  things 
without,  making  to  the  mind  a  new  and  fairer  world, — 
even  the  shadowing  of  that  which  its  immortal  craving 
will  sometimes  dream  of  in  the  unknown  future.  Nay, 


ART. 


85 


there  is  scarcely  an  object  so  familiar  or  humble,  that 
its  magical  touch  cannot  invest  it  with  some  poetic 
charm.  Let  us  take  an  extreme  instance,  —  a  pig  in 
his  sty.  The  painter,  Morland,  was  able  to  convert  even 
this  disgusting  object  into  a  source  of  pleasure, —  and 
a  pleasure  as  real  as  any  that  is  known  to  the  palate. 

Leaving  this  to  have  the  weight  it  may  be  found  to 
deserve,  we  turn  to  the  original  question;  namely, 
What  do  we  mean  by  Human  or  Poetic  Truth  ? 

When,  in  respect  to  certain  objects,  the  effects  are 
found  to  be  uniformly  of  the  same  kind,  not  only  up- 
on ourselves,  but  also  upon  others,  we  may  reasonably 
infer  that  the  efficient  cause  is  of  one  nature,  and  that 
its  uniformity  is  a  necessary  result.  And,  when  we 
also  find  that  these  effects,  though  differing  in  degree, 
are  yet  uniform  in  their  character,  while  they  seem  to 
proceed  from  objects  which  in  themselves  are  indefi- 
nitely variant,  both  in  kind  and  degree,  we  are  still  more 
forcibly  drawn  to  the  conclusion,  that  the  cause  is  not 
only  one,  but  not  inherent  in  the  object.*  The  question 
now  arises,  What,  then,  is  that  which  seems  to  us 
so  like  an  alter  et  idem,  —  which  appears  to  act  upon, 
and  is  recognized  by  us,  through  an  animal,  a  bird,  a 
tree,  and  a  thousand  different,  nay,  opposing  objects, 
in  the  same  way,  and  to  the  same  end?  The  infer- 
ence follows  of  necessity,  that  the  mysterious  cause 
must  be  in  some  general  law,  which  is  absolute  and 
imperative  in  relation  to  every  such  object  under  certain 
conditions.  And  we  receive  the  solution  as  true,  — 
because  we  cannot  help  it.  The  reality,  then,  of  such  a 
law  becomes  a  fixture  in  the  mind. 

But  we  do  not  stop  here  :  we  would  know  some- 


*  See  Introductory  Discourse. 

8 


86 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


thing  concerning  the  conditions  supposed.  And  in  or- 
der to  this,  we  go  back  to  the  effect.  And  the  answer 
is  returned  in  the  form  of  a  question,  —  May  it  not  be 
something  from  ourselves,  which  is  reflected  back  by 
the  object,  —  something  with  which,  as  it  were,  we  im- 
bue the  object,  making  it  correspond  to  a  reality  within 
us  ?  Now  we  recognize  the  reality  within ;  we  recog- 
nize it  also  in  the  object,  —  and  the  affirming  light 
flashes  upon  us,  not  in  the  form  of  deduction,  but  of 
inherent  Truth,  which  we  cannot  get  rid  of;  and  we 
call  it  Truth,  —  for  it  will  take  no  other  name. 

It  now  remains  to  discover,  so  to  speak,  its  location. 
In  what  part,  then,  of  man  may  this  self-evidenced,  yet 
elusive,  Truth  or  power  be  said  to  reside  ?  It  cannot 
be  in  the  senses  ;  for  the  senses  can  impart  no  more 
than  they  receive.  Is  it,  then,  in  the  mind  ?  Here  we 
are  compelled  to  ask,  What  is  understood  by  the  mind? 
Do  we  mean  the  understanding  ?  We  can  trace  no  re- 
lation between  the  Truth  we  would  class  and  the  re- 
flective faculties.  Or  in  the  moral  principle  ?  Surely 
not;  for  we  can  predicate  neither  good  nor  evil  by  the 
Truth  in  question.  Finally,  do  we  find  it  identified 
with  the  truth  of  the  Spirit  ?  But  what  is  the  truth  of 
the  Spirit  but  the  Spirit  itself, — the  conscious  I?  which 
is  never  even  thought  of  in  connection  with  it.  In 
what  form,  then,  shall  we  recognize  it  ?  In  its  own, — 
the  form  of  Life,  — the  life  of  the  Human  Being ;  that 
self-projecting,  realizing  power,  which  is  ever  present, 
ever  acting  and  giving  judgment  on  the  instant  on  all 
things  corresponding  with  its  inscrutable  self.  We  now 
assign  it  a  distinctive  epithet,  and  call  it  Human. 

It  is  a  common  saying,  that  there  is  more  in  a  name 
than  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  And  the  saying  is  not 
without  reason ;  for  when  the  name  happens  to  be  the 


ART. 


87 


true  one,  being  proved  in  its  application,  it  becomes  no 
unimportant  indicator  as  to  the  particular  offices  for 
which  the  thing  named  was  designed.  So  we  find  it 
with  respect  to  the  Truth  of  which  we  speak  ;  its  dis- 
tinctive epithet  marking  out  to  us,  as  its  sphere  of 
action,  the  mysterious  intercourse  between  man  and 
man ;  whether  the  medium  consist  in  words  or  colors, 
in  thought  or  form,  or  in  any  thing  else  on  which  the 
human  agent  may  impress,  be  it  in  a  sign  only,  his 
own  marvellous  life.  As  to  the  process  or  modus 
operandi,  it  were  a  vain  endeavour  to  seek  it  out :  that 
divine  secret  must  ever  to  man  be  an  humbling  dark- 
ness. It  is  enough  for  him  to  know  that  there  is  that 
within  him  which  is  ever  answering  to  that  without, 
as  life  to  life,  —  which  must  be  life,  and  which  must 
be  true. 

We  proceed  now  to  the  third  characteristic.  It  has 
already  been  stated,  in  the  general  definition,  what 
we  would  be  understood  to  mean  by  the  term  Inven- 
tion, in  its  particular  relation  to  Art ;  namely,  any  un- 
practised mode  of  presenting  a  subject,  whether  by  the 
combination  of  forms  already  known,  or  by  the  union 
and  modification  of  known  but  fragmentary  parts  into  a 
new  and  consistent  whole :  in  both  cases  tested  by  the 
two  preceding  characteristics. 

We  shall  consider  first  that  division  of  the  subject 
which  stands  first  in  order,  —  the  Invention  which  con- 
sists in  the  new  combination  of  known  forms.  This 
may  be  said  to  be  governed  by  its  exclusive  relation 
either  to  what  is,  or  has  been,  or,  when  limited  by  the 
probable,  to  what  strictly  may  be.  It  may  therefore  be 
distinguished  by  the  term  Natural.  But  though  we  so 
name  it,  inasmuch  as  all  its  forms  have  their  proto- 
types in  the  Actual,  it  must  still  be  remembered  that 


88 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


these  existing  forms  do  substantially  constitute  no 
more  than  mere  parts  to  be  combined  into  a  whole,  for 
which  Nature  has  provided  no  original.  For  examples 
in  this,  the  most  comprehensive  class,  we  need  not  re- 
fer to  any  particular  school ;  they  are  to  be  found  in 
all  and  in  every  gallery:  from  the  histories  of  Raf- 
faelle,  the  landscapes  of  Claude  and  Poussin  and  others, 
to  the  familiar  scenes  of  Jan  Steen,  Ostade,  and  Brower. 
In  each  of  these  an  adherence  to  the  actual,  if  not 
strictly  observed,  is  at  least  supposed  in  all  its  parts ; 
not  so  in  the  whole,  as  that  relates  to  the  probable ;  by 
which  we  mean  such  a  result  as  would  be  true,  were 
the  same  combination  to  occur  in  nature.  Nor  must 
we  be  understood  to  mean,  by  adherence  to  the  actual, 
that  one  part  is  to  be  taken  for  an  exact  portrait ;  we 
mean  only  such  an  imitation  as  precludes  an  intention- 
al deviation  from  already  existing  and  known  forms. 

It  must  be  very  obvious,  that,  in  classing  together 
any  of  the  productions  of  the  artists  above  named,  it 
cannot  be  intended  to  reduce  them  to  a  level ;  such  an 
attempt  (did  our  argument  require  it)  must  instantly 
revolt  the  common  sense  and  feeling  of  every  one  at 
all  acquainted  with  Art.  And  therefore,  perhaps,  it 
may  be  thought  that  their  striking  difference,  both  in 
kind  and  degree,  might  justly  call  for  some  further 
division.  But  admitting,  as  all  must,  a  wide,  nay, 
almost  impassable,  interval  between  the  familiar  sub- 
jects of  the  lower  Dutch  and  Flemish  painters,  and  the 
higher  intellectual  works  of  the  great  Italian  masters, 
we  see  no  reason  why  they  may  not  be  left  to  draw 
their  own  line  of  demarcation  as  to  their  respective 
provinces,  even  as  is  every  day  done  by  actual  objects ; 
which  are  all  equally  natural,  though  widely  differ- 
enced as  well  in  kind  as  in  quality.    It  is  no  degradation 


ART. 


89 


to  the  greatest  genius  to  say  of  him  and  of  the  most 
unlettered  boor,  that  they  are  both  men. 

Besides,  as  a  more  minute  division  would  be  wholly 
irrelevant  to  the  present  purpose,  we  shall  defer  the 
examination  of  their  individual  differences  to  another 
occasion.  In  order,  however,  more  distinctly  to  exhibit 
their  common  ground  of  Invention,  we  will  briefly 
examine  a  picture  by  Ostade,  and  then  compare  it  with 
one  by  Raffaelle,  than  whom  no  two  artists  could 
well  be  imagined  having  less  in  common. 

The  interior  of  a  Dutch  cottage  forms  the  scene  of 
Ostade's  work,  presenting  something  between  a  kitchen 
and  a  stable.  Its  principal  object  is  the  carcass  of  a 
hog,  newly  washed  and  hung  up  to  dry ;  subordinate 
to  which  is  a  woman  nursing  an  infant ;  the  accesso- 
ries, various  garments,  pots,  kettles,  and  other  culinary 
utensils. 

The  bare  enumeration  of  these  coarse  materials 
would  naturally  predispose  the  mind  of  one,  unac- 
quainted with  the  Dutch  school,  to  expect  any  thing 
but  pleasure;  indifference,  not  to  say  disgust,  would 
seem  to  be  the  only  possible  impression  from  a  picture 
composed  of  such  ingredients.  And  such,  indeed, 
would  be  their  effect  under  the  hand  of  any  but  a  real 
Artist.  Let  us  look  into  the  picture  and  follow 
Ostade's  mind,  as  it  leaves  its  impress  on  the  sev- 
eral objects.  Observe  how  he  spreads  his  principal 
light,  from  the  suspended  carcass  to  the  surround- 
ing objects,  moulding  it,  so  to  speak,  into  agreeable 
shapes,  here  by  extending  it  to  a  bit  of  drapery,  there 
to  an  earthen  pot ;  then  connecting  it,  by  the  flash 
from  a  brass  kettle,  with  his  second  light,  the  woman 
and  child;  and  again  turning  the  eye  into  the  dark 
recesses  through  a  labyrinth  of  broken  chairs,  old  bas- 
8* 


90 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


kets,  roosting  fowls,  and  bits  of  straw,  till  a  glimpse  of 
sunshine,  from  a  half-open  window,  gleams  on  the  eye, 
as  it  were,  like  an  echo,  and  sending  it  back  to  the 
principal  object,  which  now  seems  to  act  on  the  mind 
as  the  luminous  source  of  all  these  diverging  lights. 
But  the  magical  whole  is  not  yet  completed;  the 
mystery  of  color  has  been  called  in  to  the  aid  of 
light,  and  so  subtly  blends  that  we  can  hardly  sepa- 
rate them  ;  at  least,  until  their  united  effect  has  first 
been  felt,  and  after  we  have  begun  the  process  of  cold 
analysis.  Yet  even  then  we  cannot  long  proceed  be- 
fore we  find  the  charm  returning ;  as  we  pass  from  the 
blaze  of  light  on  the  carcass,  where  all  the  tints  of  the 
prism  seem  to  be  faintly  subdued,  we  are  met  on  its 
borders  by  the  dark  harslet,  glowing  like  rubies ;  then 
we  repose  awhile  on  the  white  cap  and  kerchief  of  the 
nursing  mother ;  then  we  are  roused  again  by  the  flick- 
ering strife  of  the  antagonist  colors  on  a  blue  jacket 
and  red  petticoat ;  then  the  strife  is  softened  by  the 
low  yellow  of  a  straw-bottomed  chair ;  and  thus  with 
alternating  excitement  and  repose  do  we  travel  through 
the  picture,  till  the  scientific  explorer  loses  the  analyst 
in  the  unresisting  passiveness  of  a  poetic  dream.  Now 
all  this  will  no  doubt  appear  to  many,  if  not  absurd, 
at  least  exaggerated  :  but  not  so  to  those  who  have  ever 
felt  the  sorcery  of  color.  They,  we  are  sure,  will  be 
the  last  to  question  the  character  of  the  feeling  be- 
cause of  the  ingredients  which  worked  the  spell,  and, 
if  true  to  themselves,  they  must  call  it  poetry.  Nor 
will  they  consider  it  any  disparagement  to  the  all- 
accomplished  Raffaelle  to  say  of  Ostade  that  he  also 
was  an  Artist. 

We  turn  now  to  a  work  of  the  great  Italian,  —  the 
Death  of  Ananias.    The  scene  is  laid  in  a  plain  apart- 


ART. 


91 


ment,  which  is  wholly  devoid  of  ornament,  as  became 
the  hall  of  audience  of  the  primitive  Christians.  The 
Apostles  (then  eleven  in  number)  have  assembled  to 
transact  the  temporal  business  of  the  Church,  and  are 
standing  together  on  a  slightly  elevated  platform,  about 
which,  in  various  attitudes,  some  standing,  others  kneel- 
ing, is  gathered  a  promiscuous  assemblage  of  their 
new  converts,  male  and  female.  This  quiet  assembly 
(for  we  still  feel  its  quietness  in  the  midst  of  the  awful 
judgment)  is  suddenly  roused  by  the  sudden  fall  of  one 
of  their  brethren ;  some  of  them  turn  and  see  him 
struggling  in  the  agonies  of  death.  A  moment  before 
he  w^as  in  the  vigor  of  life,  —  as  his  muscular  limbs 
still  bear  evidence  ;  but  he  had  uttered  a  falsehood,  and 
an  instant  after  his  frame  is  convulsed  from  head  to 
foot.  Nor  do  we  doubt  for  a  moment  as  to  the  awful 
cause  :  it  is  almost  expressed  in  voice  by  those  near- 
est to  him,  and,  though  varied  by  their  different  tem- 
peraments, by  terror,  astonishment,  and  submissive 
faith,  this  voice  has  yet  but  one  meaning,  —  "  Ananias 
has  lied  to  the  Holy  Ghost."  The  terrible  words, 
as  if  audible  to  the  mind,  now  direct  us  to  him  who 
pronounced  his  doom,  and  the  singly -raised  finger  of 
the  Apostle  marks  him  the  judge;  yet  not  of  him- 
self,—  for  neither  his  attitude,  air,  nor  expression 
has  any  thing  in  unison  with  the  impetuous  Peter, — 
he  is  now  the  simple,  passive,  yet  awful  instru- 
ment of  the  Almighty :  while  another  on  the  right, 
with  equal  calmness,  though  witH  more  severity, 
by  his  elevated  arm,  as  beckoning  to  judgment,  an- 
ticipates the  fate  of  the  entering  Sapphira.  Yet  all  is 
not  done ;  lest  a  question  remain,  the  Apostle  on  the 
left  confirms  the  judgment.  No  one  can  mistake  what 
passes  within  him ;  like  one  transfixed  in  adoration,  his 


92 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


uplifted  eyes  seem  to  ray  out  his  soul,  as  if  in  recog- 
nition of  the  divine  tribunal.  But  the  overpowering 
thought  of  Omnipotence  is  now  tempered  by  the  hu- 
man sympathy  of  his  companion,  whose  open  hands, 
connecting  the  past  with  the  present,  seem  almost  to 
articulate,  "  Alas,  my  brother !  "  By  this  exquisite  turn, 
we  are  next  brought  to  John,  the  gentle  almoner  of  the 
Church,  who  is  dealing  out  their  portions  to  the  needy 
brethren.  And  here,  as  most  remote  from  the  judged 
Ananias,  whose  suffering  seems  not  yet  to  have  reached 
it,  we  find  a  spot  of  repose,  —  not  to  pass  by,  but  to 
linger  upon,  till  we  feel  its  quiet  influence  diffusing  it- 
self over  the  whole  mind ;  nay,  till,  connecting  it  with 
the  beloved  Disciple,  we  find  it  leading  us  back  through 
the  exciting  scene,  modifying  even  our  deepest  emotions 
with  a  kindred  tranquillity. 

This  is  Invention ;  we  have  not  moved  a  step 
through  the  picture  but  at  the  will  of  the  Artist.  He 
invented  the  chain  which  we  have  followed,  link  by  link, 
through  every  emotion,  assimilating  many  into  one;  and 
this  is  the  secret  by  which  he  prepared  us,  without  excit- 
ing horror,  to  contemplate  the  struggle  of  mortal  agony. 

This  too  is  Art ;  and  the  highest  art,  when  thus  the 
awful  power,  without  losing  its  character,  is  tempered, 
as  it  were,  to  our  mysterious  desires.  In  the  work  of 
Ostade,  we  see  the  same  inventive  power,  no  less  ef- 
fective, though  acting  through  the  medium  of  the  hum- 
blest materials. 

We  have  now  exhibited  two  pictures,  and  by  two 
painters  who  may  be  said  to  stand  at  opposite  poles. 
And  yet,  widely  apart  as  are  their  apparent  stations, 
they  are  nevertheless  tenants  of  the  same  ground, 
namely,  actual  nature ;  the  only  difference  being,  that 
one  is  the  sovereign  of  the  purely  physical,  the  other  of 


ART. 


93 


the  moral  and  intellectual,  while  their  common  medi- 
um is  the  catholic  ground  of  the  imagination. 

We  do  not  fear  either  skeptical  demur  or  direct  con- 
tradiction, when  we  assert  that  the  imagination  is  as 
much  the  medium  of  the  homely  Ostade,  as  of  the 
refined  ftaffaelle.  For  what  is  that,  which  has  just 
wrapped  us  as  in  a  spell  when  we  entered  his  humble 
cottage,  —  which,  as  we  wandered  through  it,  invested 
the  coarsest  object  with  a  strange  charm  ?  Was  it  the 
truth  of  these  objects  that  we  there  acknowledged  ? 
In  part,  certainly,  but  not  simply  the  truth  that  belongs 
to  their  originals  ;  it  was  the  truth  of  his  own  individ- 
ual mind  superadded  to  that  of  nature,  nay,  clothed 
upon  besides  by  his  imagination,  imbuing  it  with  all 
the  poetic  hues  which  float  in  the  opposite  regions  of 
night  and  day,  and  which  only  a  poet  can  mingle  and 
make  visible  in  one  pervading  atmosphere.  To  all  this 
our  own  minds,  our  own  imaginations,  respond,  and  we 
pronounce  it  true  to  both.  We  have  no  other  rule, 
and  well  may  the  artists  of  every  age  and  country 
thank  the  great  Lawgiver  that  there  is  no  other.  The 
despised  feeling  which  the  schools  have  scouted  is  yet 
the  mother  of  that  science  of  which  they  vainly  boast. 
But  of  this  we  may  have  more  to  say  in  another  place. 

We  shall  now  ascend  from  the  probable  to  the  possi- 
ble, to  that  branch  of  Invention  whose  proper  office  is 
from  the  known  but  fragmentary  to  realize  the  un- 
known ;  in  other  words,  to  embody  the  possible,  having 
its  sphere  of  action  in  the  world  of  Ideas.  To  this  class, 
therefore,  may  properly  be  assigned  the  term  Ideal 

And  here,  as  being  its  most  important  scene,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  take  a  more  particular  view  of  the  veri- 
fying principle,  the  agent,  so  to  speak,  that  gives  real- 
ity to  the  inward,  when  outwardly  manifested. 


94 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


Now,  whether  we  call  this  Human  or  Poetic  Truth, 
or  inward  life,  it  matters  not ;  we  know  by  its  effects, 
(as  we  have  already  said,  and  we  now  repeat,)  that 
some  such  principle  does  exist,  and  that  it  acts  upon 
us,  and  in  a  way  analogous  to  the  operation  of  that 
which  we  call  truth  and  life  in  the  world  about  us.  And 
that  the  cause  of  this  analogy  is  a  real  affinity  between 
the  two  powers  seems  to  us  confirmed,  not  only  pos- 
itively by  this  acknowledged  fact,  but  also  negatively 
by  the  absence  of  the  effect  above  mentioned  in  all 
those  productions  of  the  mind  which  we  pronounce  un- 
natural. It  is  therefore  in  effect,  or  quoad  ourselves, 
both  truth  and  life,  addressed,  if  we  may  use  the  expres- 
sion, to  that  inscrutable  instinct  of  the  imagination 
which  conducts  us  to  the  knowledge  of  all  invisible 
realities. 

A  distinct  apprehension  of  the  reality  and  of  the 
office  of  this  important  principle,  we  cannot  but  think, 
will  enable  us  to  ascertain  with  some  degree  of  precis- 
ion, at  least  so  far  as  relates  to  art,  the  true  limits  of  the 
Possible, — the  sphere,  as  premised,  of  Ideal  Invention. 

As  to  what  some  have  called  our  creative  powers,  we 
take  it  for  granted  that  no  correct  thinker  has  ever  ap- 
plied such  expressions  literally.  Strictly  speaking,  we 
can  make  nothing :  we  can  only  construct.  But  how 
vast  a  theatre  is  here  laid  open  to  the  constructive  pow- 
ers of  the  finite  creature ;  where  the  physical  eye  is 
permitted  to  travel  for  millions  and  millions  of  miles, 
while  that  of  the  mind  may,  swifter  than  light,  follow 
out  the  journey,  from  star  to  star,  till  it  falls  back  on 
itself  with  the  humbling  conviction  that  the  measureless 
journey  is  then  but  begun !  It  is  needless  to  dwell  on 
the  immeasurable  mass  of  materials  which  a  world 
like  this  may  supply  to  the  Artist. 


ART. 


95 


The  very  thought  of  its  vastness  darkens  into  won- 
der. Yet  how  much  deeper  the  wonder,  when  the  cre- 
ated mind  looks  into  itself,  and  contemplates  the  power 
of  impressing  its  thoughts  on  all  things  visible ;  nay,  of 
giving  the  likeness  of  life  to  things  inanimate  ;  and, 
still  more  marvellous,  by  the  mere  combination  of 
words  or  colors,  of  evolving  into  shape  its  own  Idea,  till 
some  unknown  form,  having  no  type  in  the  actual,  is 
made  to  seem  to  us  an  organized  being.  When  such 
is  the  result  of  any  unknown  combination,  then  it  is 
that  we  achieve  the  Possible.  And  here  the  Realizing 
Principle  may  strictly  be  said  to  prove  itself. 

That  such  an  effect  should  follow  a  cause  which  we 
know  to  be  purely  imaginary,  supposes,  as  we  have 
said,  something  in  ourselves  which  holds,  of  necessity,  a 
predetermined  relation  to  every  object  either  outwardly 
existing  or  projected  from  the  mind,  which  we  thus 
recognize  as  true.  If  so,  then  the  Possible  and  the 
Ideal  are  convertible  terms ;  having  their  existence,  ab 
initio,  in  the  nature  of  the  mind.  The  soundness  of 
this  inference  is  also  supported  negatively,  as  just  ob- 
served, by  the  opposite  result,  as  in  the  case  of  those 
fantastic  combinations,  which  we  sometimes  meet  with 
both  in  Poetry  and  Painting,  and  which  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  unnatural,  that  is,  false. 

And  here  we  would  not  be  understood  as  implying 
the  preexistence  of  all  possible  forms,  as  so  many 
patterns,  but  only  of  that  constructive  Power  which 
imparts  its  own  Truth  to  the  unseen  real,  and,  under 
certain  conditions,  reflects  the  image  or  semblance  of 
its  truth  on  all  things  imagined ;  and  which  must  be 
assumed  in  order  to  account  for  the  phenomena  pre- 
sented in  the  frequent  coincident  effect  between  the  real 
and  the  feigned.    Nor  does  the  absence  of  conscious- 


96 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


ness  in  particular  individuals,  as  to  this  Power  in  them- 
selves, fairly  affect  its  universality,  at  least  potentially : 
since  by  the  same  rule  there  would  be  equal  ground  for 
denying  the  existence  of  any  faculty  of  the  mind  which 
is  of  slow  or  gradual  developement ;  all  that  we  may 
reasonably  infer  in  such  cases  is,  that  the  whole  mind 
is  not  yet  revealed  to  itself.  In  some  of  the  greatest 
artists,  the  inventive  powers  have  been  of  late  develope- 
ment ;  as  in  Claude,  and  the  sculptor  Falconet.  And 
can  any  one  believe  that,  while  the  latter  was  hewing 
his  master's  marble,  and  the  former  making  pastry, 
either  of  them  was  conscious  of  the  sublime  Ideas 
which  afterwards  took  form  for  the  admiration  of  the 
world  ?  When  Raffaelle,  then  a  youth,  was  selected  to 
execute  the  noble  works  which  now  live  on  the  walls  of 
the  Vatican,  "  he  had  done  little  or  nothing,"  says  Rey- 
nolds, "  to  justify  so  high  a  trust."  Nor  could  he  have 
been  certain,  from  what  he  knew  of  himself,  that 
he  was  equal  to  the  task.  He  could  only  hope  to 
succeed ;  and  his  hope  was  no  doubt  founded  on  his 
experience  of  the  progressive  developement  of  his  mind 
in  former  efforts  ;  rationally  concluding,  that  the  origi- 
nally seeming  blank  from  which  had  arisen  so  many 
admirable  forms  was  still  teeming  with  others,  that 
only  wanted  the  occasion,  or  excitement,  to  come  forth 
at  his  bidding. 

To  return  to  that  which,  as  the  interpreting  medium 
of  his  thoughts  and  conceptions,  connects  the  artist  with 
his  fellow-men,  we  remark,  that  only  on  the  ground 
of  some  self-realizing  power,  like  what  we  have  termed 
Poetic  Truth,  could  what  we  call  the  Ideal  ever  be  in- 
telligible. 

That  some  such  power  is  inherent  and  fundamental 
in  our  nature,  though  differenced  in  individuals  by 


ART. 


97 


more  or  less  activity,  seems  more  especially  con- 
firmed in  this  latter  branch  of  the  subject,  where  the 
phenomena  presented  are  exclusively  of  the  Possible, 
indeed,  we  cannot  conceive  how  without  it  there 
could  ever  be  such  a  thing  as  true  Art ;  for  what  might 
be  received  as  such  in  one  age  might  also  be  overruled 
in  the  next :  as  we  know  to  be  the  case  with  most 
things  depending  on  opinion.  But,  happily  for  Art,  if 
once  established  on  this  immutable  base,  there  it  must 
rest :  and  rest  unchanged,  amidst  the  endless  fluctua- 
tions of  manners,  habits,  and  opinions ;  for  its  truth  of 
a  thousand  years  is  as  the  truth  of  yesterday.  Hence 
the  beings  described  by  Homer,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton 
are  as  true  to  us  now,  as  the  recent  characters  of  Scott. 
Nor  is  it  the  least  characteristic  of  this  important 
Truth,  that  the  only  thing  needed  for  its  full  reception 
is  simply  its  presence,  —  being  its  own  evidence. 

How  otherwise  could  such  a  being  as  Caliban  ever 
be  true  to  us  ?  We  have  never  seen  his  race  ;  nay,  we 
knew  not  that  such  a  creature  could  exist,  until  he  start- 
ed upon  us  from  the  mind  of  Shakspeare.  Yet  who 
ever  stopped  to  ask  if  he  were  a  real  being  ?  His  ex- 
istence to  the  mind  is  instantly  felt ; — not  as  a  matter  of 
faith,  but  of  fact,  and  a  fact,  too,  which  the  imagination 
cannot  get  rid  of  if  it  would,  but  which  must  ever  re- 
main there,  verifying  itself,  from  the  first  to  the  last  mo- 
ment of  consciousness.  From  whatever  point  we  view 
this  singular  creature,  his  reality  is  felt.  His  very  lan- 
guage, his  habits,  his  feelings,  whenever  they  recur  to 
us,  are  all  issues  from  a  living  thing,  acting  upon  us, 
nay,  forcing  the  mind,  in  some  instances,  even  to  specu- 
late on  his  nature,  till  it  finds  itself  classing  him  in  the 
chain  of  being  as  the  intermediate  link  between  man 
and  the  brute.  And  this  we  do,  not  by  an  ingenious 
9 


98 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


effort,  but  almost  by  involuntary  induction  ;  for  we  per- 
ceive speech  and  intellect,  and  yet  without  a  soul. 
What  but  an  intellectual  brute  could  have  uttered  the 
imprecations  of  Caliban  ?  They  would  not  be  natural 
in  man,  whether  savage  or  civilized.  Hear  him,  in  his 
wrath  against  Prospero  and  Miranda  :  — 

"  A  wicked  clew  as  e'er  my  mother  brushed 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Light  on  you  both  !  " 

The  wild  malignity  of  this  curse,  fierce  as  it  is,  yet 
wants  the  moral  venom,  the  devilish  leaven,  of  a  con- 
senting spirit :  it  is  all  but  human. 

To  this  we  may  add  a  similar  example,  from  our 
own  art,  in  the  Puck,  or  Robin  Goodfellow,  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds.  Who  can  look  at  this  exquisite  lit- 
tle creature,  seated  on  its  toadstool  cushion,  and  not 
acknowledge  its  prerogative  of  life,  —  that  mysterious 
influence  which  in  spite  of  the  stubborn  understanding 
masters  the  mind,  —  sending  it  back  to  days  long  past, 
when  care  was  but  a  dream,  and  its  most  serious  busi- 
ness a  childish  frolic  ?  But  we  no  longer  think  of  child- 
hood as  the  past,  still  less  as  an  abstraction ;  we  see  it 
embodied  before  us,  in  all  its  mirth  and  fun  and  glee ; 
and  the  grave  man  becomes  again  a  child,  to  feel  as  a 
child,  and  to  follow  the  little  enchanter  through  all  his 
wiles  and  never-ending  labyrinth  of  pranks.  What  can 
be  real,  if  that  is  not  which  so  takes  us  out  of  our 
present  selves,  that  the  weight  of  years  falls  from 
us  as  a  garment,  —  that  the  freshness  of  life  seems 
to  begin  anew,  and  the  heart  and  the  fancy,  resum- 
ing their  first  joyous  consciousness,  to  launch  again 
into  this  moving  world,  as  on  a  sunny  sea,  whose 
pliant  waves  yield  to  the  touch,  yet,  sparkling  and 
buoyant,  carry  them  onward  in  their  merry  gambols  ? 


ART. 


99 


Where  all  the  purposes  of  reality  are  answered,  if 
there  be  no  philosophy  in  admitting,  we  see  no  wis- 
dom in  disputing  it. 

Of  the  immutable  nature  of  this  peculiar  Truth,  we 
have  a  like  instance  in  the  Farnese  Hercules  ;  the  work 
of  the  Grecian  sculptor  Glycon,  —  we  had  almost  said 
his  immortal  offspring.  Since  the  time  of  its  birth, 
cities  and  empires,  even  whole  nations,  have  disappear- 
ed, giving  place  to  others,  more  or  less  barbarous  or 
civilized  ;  yet  these  are  as  nothing  to  the  countless  rev- 
olutions which  have  marked  the  interval  in  the  man- 
ners, habits,  and  opinions  of  men.  Is  it  reasonable, 
then,  to  suppose  that  any  thing  not  immutable  in  its 
nature  could  possibly  have  withstood  such  continual 
fluctuation  ?  But  how  have  all  these  changes  affected 
this  visible  image  of  Truth  ?  In  no  wise ;  not  a  jot ; 
and  because  what  is  true  is  independent  of  opinion  :  it 
is  the  same  to  us  now  as  it  was  to  the  men  of  the  dust  of 
antiquity.  The  unlearned  spectator  of  the  present  day 
may  not,  indeed,  see  in  it  the  Demigod  of  Greece ;  but 
he  can  never  mistake  it  for  a  mere  exaggeration  of  the 
human  form ;  though  of  mortal  mould,  he  cannot  doubt 
its  possession  of  more  than  mortal  powers ;  he  feels  its 
essential  life,  for  he  feels  before  it  as  in  the  stirring  pres- 
ence of  a  superior  being. 

Perhaps  the  attempt  to  give  form  and  substance  to  a 
pure  Idea  was  never  so  perfectly  accomplished  as  in 
this  wonderful  figure.  Who  has  ever  seen  the  ocean 
in  repose,  in  its  awful  sleep,  that  smooths  it  like  glass, 
yet  cannot  level  its  unfathomed  swell  ?  So  seems  to 
us  the  repose  of  this  tremendous  personification  of 
strength :  the  laboring  eye  heaves  on  its  slumbering 
sea  of  muscles,  and  trembles  like  a  skiff  as  it  passes 
over  them :  but  the  silent  intimations  of  the  spirit  be- 


100 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


neath  at  length  become  audible ;  the  startled  imagina- 
tion hears  it  in  its  rage,  sees  it  in  motion,  and  sees  its 
resistless  might  in  the  passive  wrecks  that  follow  the  up- 
roar. And  this  from  a  piece  of  marble,  cold,  immovable, 
lifeless  !  Surely  there  is  that  in  man,  which  the  senses 
cannot  reach,  nor  the  plumb  of  the  understanding 
sound. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  the  Apollo  called  Belvedere.  In 
this  supernal  being,  the  human  form  seems  to  have  been 
assumed  as  if  to  make  visible  the  harmonious  conflu- 
ence of  the  pure  ideas  of  grace,  fleetness,  and  majesty; 
nor  do  we  think  it  too  fanciful  to  add  celestial  splen- 
dor ;  for  such,  in  effect,  are  the  thoughts  which  crowd, 
or  rather  rush,  into  the  mind  on  first  beholding  it. 
"Who  that  saw  it  in  what  may  be  called  the  place  of 
its  glory,  the  Gallery  of  Napoleon,  ever  thought  of  it 
as  a  man,  much  less  as  a  statue  ;  but  did  not  feel  rath- 
er as  if  the  vision  before  him  were  of  another  world,  — 
of  one  who  had  just  lighted  on  the  earth,  and  with  a 
step  so  ethereal,  that  the  next  instant  he  would  vault  into 
the  air  ?  If  I  may  be  permitted  to  recall  the  impression 
which  it  made  on  myself,  I  know  not  that  I  could  bet- 
ter describe  it  than  as  a  sudden  intellectual  flash,  filling 
the  whole  mind  with  light,  —  and  light  in  motion.  It 
seemed  to  the  mind  what  the  first  sight  of  the  sun  is 
to  the  senses,  as  it  emerges  from  the  ocean ;  when  from 
a  point  of  light  the  whole  orb  at  once  appears  to  bound 
from  the  waters,  and  to  dart  its  rays,  as  by  a  visible  ex- 
plosion, through  the  profound  of  space.  But,  as  the 
deified  Sun,  how  completely  is  the  conception  verified 
in  the  thoughts  that  follow  the  effulgent  original  and 
its  marble  counterpart!  Perennial  youth,  perennial 
brightness,  follow  them  both.  Who  can  imagine  the 
old  age  of  the  sun?    As  soon  may  we  think  of  an  old 


ART. 


101 


Apollo.  Now  all  this  may  be  ascribed  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  beholder.  Granted,  —  yet  will  it  not  thus 
be  explained  away.  For  that  is  the  very  faculty  ad- 
dressed by  every  work  of  Genius, — whose  nature  is  sug- 
gestive ;  and  only  when  it  excites  to  or  awakens  con- 
genial thoughts  and  emotions,  filling  the  imagination 
with  corresponding  images,  does  it  attain  its  proper  end. 
The  false  and  the  commonplace  can  never  do  this. 

It  were  easy  to  multiply  similar  examples ;  the  bare 
mention  of  a  single  name  in  modern  art  might  conjure 
up  a  host,  —  the  name  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  mighty 
sovereign  of  the  Ideal,  than  whom  no  one  ever  trod  so 
near,  yet  so  securely,  the  dizzy  brink  of  the  Impossible. 

Of  Unity,  the  fourth  and  last  characteristic,  we  shall 
say  but  little ;  for  we  know  in  truth  little  or  nothing  of 
the  law  which  governs  it :  indeed,  all  that  we  know  but 
amounts  to  this,  —  that,  wherever  existing,  it  presents  to 
the  mind  the  Idea  of  a  Whole,  —  which  is  itself  a  mys- 
tery. For  what  answer  can  we  give  to  the  question, 
What  is  a  Whole?  If  we  reply,  That  which  has  neither 
more  nor  less  than  it  ought  to  have,  we  do  not  advance 
a  step  towards  a  definite  notion ;  for  the  rule  (if  there 
be  one)  is  yet  undiscovered,  by  which  to  measure  either 
the  too  much  or  the  too  little.  Nevertheless,  incompre- 
hensible as  it  certainly  is,  it  is  what  the  mind  will  not 
dispense  with  in  a  work  of  Art ;  nay,  it  will  not  con- 
cede even  a  right  to  the  name  to  any  production  where 
this  is  wanting.  Nor  is  it  a  sound  objection,  that  we 
also  receive  pleasure  from  many  things  which  seem  to 
us  fragmentary ;  for  instance,  from  actual  views  in  Na- 
ture, —  as  we  shall  hope  to  show  in  another  place.  It  is 
sufficient  at  present,  that,  in  relation  to  Art,  the  law  of 
the  imagination  demands  a  whole ;  in  order  to  which 
9* 


102 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


not  a  single  part  must  be  felt  to  be  wanting ;  all  must 
be  there,  however  imperfectly  rendered ;  nay,  such  is 
the  craving  of  this  active  faculty,  that,  be  they  but  mere 
hints,  it  will  often  fill  them  out  to  the  desired  end ;  the 
only  condition  being,  that  the  part  hinted  be  founded  in 
truth.  It  is  well  known  to  artists,  that  a  sketch,  con- 
sisting of  little  more  than  hints,  will  frequently  produce 
the  desired  effect,  and  by  the  same  means,  —  the  hints 
being  true  so  far  as  expressed,  and  without  an  hiatus. 
But  let  the  artist  attempt  to  finish  his  sketch,  that 
is,  to  fill  out  the  parts,  and  suppose  him  deficient  in  the 
necessary  skill,  the  consequence  must  be,  that  the  true 
hints,  becoming  transformed  to  elaborate  falsehoods, 
will  be  all  at  variance,  while  the  revolted  imagination 
turns  away  with  disgust.  Nor  is  this  a  thing  of  rare 
occurrence :  indeed,  he  is  a  most  fortunate  artist,  who 
has  never  had  to  deplore  a  well-hinted  whole  thus 
reduced  to  fragments. 

These  are  facts ;  from  which  we  may  learn,  that  with 
less  than  a  whole,  either  already  wrought,  or  so  indicat- 
ed that  the  excited  imagination  can  of  itself  complete 
it,  no  genuine  response  will  ever  be  given  to  any  pro- 
duction of  man.  And  we  learn  from  it  also  this  two- 
fold truth  ;  first,  that  the  Idea  of  a  Whole  contains  in 
itself  a  preexisting  law ;  and,  secondly,  that  Art,  the 
peculiar  product  of  the  Imagination,  is  one  of  its  true 
and  predetermined  ends. 

As  to  its  practical  application,  it  were  fruitless  to 
speculate.  It  applies  itself,  even  as  truth,  both  in  ac- 
tion and  reaction,  verifying  itself :  and  our  minds  sub- 
mit, as  if  it  had  said,  There  is  nothing  wanting ;  so, 
in  the  converse,  its  dictum  is  absolute  when  it  announ- 
ces a  deficiency. 

To  return  to  the  objection,  that  we  often  receive 


ART. 


103 


pleasure  from  many  things  in  Nature  which  seem  to 
us  fragmentary,  we  observe,  that  nothing  in  Nature 
can  be  fragmentary,  except  in  the  seeming,  and  then, 
too,  to  the  understanding  only,  —  to  the  feelings  never; 
for  a  grain  of  sand,  no  less  than  a  planet,  being  an  es- 
sential part  of  that  mighty  whole  which  we  call  the 
universe,  cannot  be  separated  from  the  Idea  of  the 
world  without  a  positive  act  of  the  reflective  faculties, 
an  act  of  volition ;  but  until  then  even  a  grain  of  sand 
cannot  cease  to  imply  it.  To  the  mere  understanding, 
indeed,  even  the  greatest  extent  of  actual  objects  which 
the  finite  creature  can  possibly  imagine  must  ever  fall 
short  of  the  vast  works  of  the  Creator.  Yet  we  never- 
theless can,  and  do,  apprehend  the  existence  of  the  uni- 
verse. Now  we  would  ask  here,  whether  the  influence 
of  a  real)  —  and  the  epithet  here  is  not  unimportant,  — 
whether  the  influence  of  a  real  Whole  is  at  no  time  felt 
without  an  act  of  consciousness,  that  is,  without  think- 
ing of  a  whole.  Is  this  impossible  ?  Is  it  altogether 
out  of  experience  ?  We  have  already  shown  (as  we 
think)  that  no  unmodified  copy  of  actual  objects,  wheth- 
er single  or  multifarious,  ever  satisfies  the  imagination, 
—  which  imperatively  demands  a  something  more,  or 
at  least  different.  And  yet  we  often  find  that  the  very 
objects  from  which  these  copies  are  made  do  satisfy  us. 
How  and  why  is  this  ?  A  question  more  easily  put 
than  answered.  We  may  suggest,  however,  what  ap- 
pears to  us  a  clew,  that  in  abler  hands  may  possibly  lead 
to  its  solution ;  namely,  the  fact,  that,  among  the  in- 
numerable emotions  of  a  pleasurable  kind  derived  from 
the  actual,  there  is  not  one,  perhaps,  which  is  strictly 
confined  to  the  objects  before  us,  and  which  we  do  not, 
either  directly  or  indirectly,  refer  to  something  beyond 
and  not  present    Now  have  we  at  all  times  a  distinct 


104 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


consciousness  of  the  things  referred  to  ?  Are  they  not 
rather  more  often  vague,  and  only  indicated  in  some 
undefined  feeling  ?  Nay,  is  its  source  more  intelligible 
where  the  feeling  is  more  definite,  when  taking  the 
form  of  a  sense  of  harmony,  as  from  something  that 
diffuses,  yet  deepens,  unbroken  in  its  progress  through 
endless  variations,  the  melody  as  it  were  of  the  pleasur- 
able object  ?  Who  has  never  felt,  under  certain  cir- 
cumstances, an  expansion  of  the  heart,  an  elevation  of 
mind,  nay,  a  striving  of  the  whole  being  to  pass  its  lim- 
ited bounds,  for  which  he  could  find  no  adequate  solu- 
tion in  the  objects  around  him,  —  the  apparent  cause? 
Or  who  can  account  for  every  mood  that  thralls  him,  — 
at  times  like  one  entranced  in  a  dream  by  airs  from 
Paradise,  —  at  other  times  steeped  in  darkness,  when  the 
spirit  of  discord  seems  to  marshal  his  every  thought, 
one  against  another  ? 

Whether  it  be  that  the  Living  Principle,  which  per- 
meates all  things  throughout  the  physical  world,  cannot 
be  touched  in  a  single  point  without  conducting  to  its 
centre,  its  source,  and  confluence,  thus  giving  by  a  part, 
though  obscurely  and  indefinitely,  a  sense  of  the  whole, 
—  we  know  not.  But  this  we  may  venture  to  assert,  and 
on  no  improbable  ground,  —  that  a  ray  of  light  is  not 
more  continuously  linked  in  its  luminous  particles  than 
our  moral  being  with  the  whole  moral  universe.  If  this 
be  so,  may  it  not  give  us,  in  a  faint  shadowing  at  least, 
some  intimation  of  the  many  real,  though  unknown 
relations,  which  everywhere  surround  and  bear  upon 
us?  In  the  deeper  emotions,  we  have,  sometimes, 
what  seems  to  us  a  fearful  proof  of  it.  But  let  us  look 
at  it  negatively ;  and  suppose  a  case  where  this  chain 
is  broken,  —  of  a  human  being  who  is  thus  cut  off  from 
all  possible  sympathies,  and  shut  up,  as  it  were,  in  the 


ART. 


105 


hopeless  solitude  of  his  own  mind.  What  is  this 
horrible  avulsion,  this  impenetrable  self-imprisonment, 
but  the  appalling  state  of  despair  ?  And  what  if  we 
should  see  it  realized  in  some  forsaken  outcast,  and 
hear  his  forlorn  cry,  "Alone!  alone !  "  while  to  his  living 
spirit  that  single  word  is  all  that  is  left  him  to  fill  the 
blank  of  space  ?  In  such  a  state,  the  very  proudest 
autocrat  would  yearn  for  the  sympathy  of  the  veriest 
wretch. 

It  would  seem,  then,  since  this  living  cement  which 
is  diffused  through  nature,  binding  all  things  in  one,  so 
that  no  part  can  be  contemplated  that  does  not,  of  ne- 
cessity, even  though  unconsciously  to  us,  act  on  the 
mind  with  reference  to  the  whole, —  since  this,  as  we 
find,  cannot  be  transferred  to  any  copy  of  the  actual,  it 
must  needs  follow,  if  we  would  imitate  Nature  in  its 
true  effects,  that  recourse  must  be  had  to  another, 
though  similar  principle,  which  shall  so  pervade  our  pro- 
duction as  to  satisfy  the  mind  with  an  efficient  equiva- 
lent. Now,  in  order  to  this  there  are  two  conditions 
required :  first,  the  personal  modification,  (already  dis- 
cussed) of  every  separate  part,  —  which  may  be  consid- 
ered as  its  proper  life;  and,  secondly,  the  uniting  of 
the  parts  by  such  an  interdependence  that  they  shall  ap- 
pear to  us  as  essential,  one  to  another,  and  all  to  each. 
"When  this  is  done,  the  result  is  a  whole.  But  how  do 
we  obtain  this  mutual  dependence  ?  We  refer  the 
questioner  to  the  law  of  Harmony,  —  that  mysterious 
power,  which  is  only  apprehended  by  its  imperative 
effect. 

But,  be  the  above  as  it  may,  we  know  it  to  be  a  fact, 
that,  whilst  nothing  in  Nature  ever  affects  us  as  frag- 
mentary, no  unmodified  copy  of  her  by  man  is  ever 
felt  by  us  as  otherwise. 


106 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


We  have  thus  —  and,  we  trust,  on  no  fanciful  ground 
—  endeavoured  to  establish  the  real  and  distinctive 
character  of  Art.  And,  if  our  argument  be  admitted, 
it  will  be  found  to  have  brought  us  to  the  following 
conclusions  :  —  first,  that  the  true  ground  of  all  original- 
ity lies  in  the  individualizing  law,  that  is,  in  that  mod- 
ifying power,  which  causes  the  difference  between  man 
and  man  as  to  their  mental  impressions;  secondly, 
that  only  in  a  true  reproduction  consists  its  evidence ; 
thirdly,  that  in  the  involuntary  response  from  other 
minds  lies  the  truth  of  the  evidence ;  fourthly,  that 
in  order  to  this  response  there  must  therefore  exist 
some  universal  kindred  principle,  which  is  essential  to 
the  human  mind,  though  widely  differenced  in  the  de- 
gree of  its  activity  in  different  individuals ;  and  finally, 
that  this  principle,  which  we  have  here  denominated 
Human  or  Poetic  Truth,  being  independent  both  of 
the  will  and  of  the  reflective  faculties,  is  in  its  nature 
imperative,  to  affirm  or  deny,  in  relation  to  every  pro- 
duction pretending  to  Art,  from  the  simple  imitation 
of  the  actual  to  the  probable,  and  from  the  probable 
to  the  possible ;  —  in  one  word,  that  the  several  charac- 
teristics, Originality,  Poetic  Truth,  Invention,  each  im- 
ply a  something  not  inherent  in  the  objects  imitated, 
but  which  must  emanate  alone  from  the  mind  of  the 
Artist. 

And  here  it  may  be  well  to  notice  an  apparent  ob- 
jection, that  will  probably  occur  to  many,  especially 
among  painters.  How,  then,  they  may  ask,  if  the 
principle  in  question  be  universal  and  imperative,  do 
we  account  for  the  mistakes  which  even  great  Artists 
have  sometimes  made  as  to  the  realizing  of  their  con- 
ceptions ?  We  hope  to  show,  that,  so  far  from  oppos- 
ing, the  very  fact  on  which  the  objection  is  grounded 


ART. 


107 


will  be  found,  on  the  contrary,  to  confirm  our  doctrine. 
Were  such  mistakes  uniformly  permanent,  they  might, 
perhaps,  have  a  rational  weight ;  but  that  this  is  not 
the  case  is  clearly  evident  from  the  additional  fact  of 
the  change  in  the  Artist's  judgment,  which  almost  in- 
variably follows  any  considerable  interval  of  time. 
Nay,  should  a  case  occur  where  a  similar  mistake  is 
never  rectified, — which  is  hardly  probable,  —  we  might 
well  consider  it  as  one  of  those  exceptions  that  prove 
the  rule,  —  of  which  we  have  abundant  examples  in  oth- 
er relations,  where  a  true  principle  is  so  feebly  developed 
as  to  be  virtually  excluded  from  the  sphere  of  conscious- 
ness, or,  at  least,  where  its  imperfect  activity  is  for  all 
practical  purposes  a  mere  nullity.  But,  without  suppos- 
ing any  mental  weakness,  the  case  may  be  resolved  by 
the  no  less  formidable  obstacle  of  a  too  inveterate  mem- 
ory:  and  there  have  been  such,  —  where  a  thought  or 
an  image  once  impressed  is  never  erased.  In  Art  it  is 
certainly  an  advantage  to  be  able  sometimes  to  for- 
get. Nor  is  this  a  new  notion  ;  for  Horace,  it  seems, 
must  have  had  the  same,  or  he  would  hardly  have 
recommended  so  long  a  time  as  nine  years  for  the 
revision  of  a  poem.  That  Titian  also  was  not  un- 
aware of  the  advantage  of  forgetting  is  recorded  by 
Boschini,  who  relates,  that,  during  the  progress  of  a 
work,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  turning  it  to 
the  wall,  until  it  had  somewhat  faded  from  his  mem- 
ory, so  that,  on  resuming  his  labor,  he  might  see  with 
fresh  eyes ;  when  (to  use  his  expression)  he  would 
criticize  the  picture  with  as  much  severity  as  his  worst 
enemy.  If,  instead  of  the  picture  on  the  canvas,  Bos- 
chini had  referred  to  that  in  his  mind,  as  what  Titian 
sought  to  forget,  he  would  have  been,  as  we  think, 
more  correct.    This  practice  is  not  uncommon  with 


108 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


Artists,  though  few,  perhaps,  are  aware  of  its  real 
object. 

It  has  doubtless  the  appearance  of  a  singular  anom- 
aly in  the  judgment,  that  it  should  not  always  be 
as  correct  in  relation  to  our  own  works  as  to  those  of 
another.  Yet  nothing  is  more  common  than  perfect 
truth  in  the  one  case,  and  complete  delusion  in  the 
other.  Our  surprise,  however,  would  be  sensibly  dimin- 
ished, if  we  considered  that  the  reasoning  or  reflective 
faculties  have  nothing  to  do  with  either  case.  It  is  the 
Principle  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  the  life, 
or  truth  within,  answering  to  the  life,  or  rather  its 
sign,  before  us,  that  here  sits  in  judgment.  Still  the 
question  remains  unanswered;  and  again  we  are  asked, 
Why  is  it  that  our  own  works  do  not  always  respond 
with  equal  veracity  ?  Simply  because  we  do  not 
always  see  them,  —  that  is,  as  they  are,  —  but,  looking 
as  it  were  through  them,  see  only  their  originals  in  the 
mind ;  the  mind  here  acting,  instead  of  being  acted 
upon.  And  thus  it  is,  that  an  Artist  may  suppose  his 
conception  realized,  while  that  which  gave  life  to  it  in 
his  mind  is  outwardly  wanting.  But  let  time  erase,  as 
we  know  it  often  does,  the  mental  image,  and  its  em- 
bodied representative  will  then  appear  to  its  author  as 
it  is,  —  true  or  false.  There  is  one  case,  however,  where 
the  effect  cannot  deceive  ;  namely,  where  it  comes  upon 
us  as  from  a  foreign  source;  where  our  own  seems 
no  longer  ours.  This,  indeed,  is  rare ;  and  powerful 
must  be  the  pictured  Truth,  that,  as  soon  as  embodied, 
shall  thus  displace  its  own  original. 

Nor  does  it  in  any  wise  affect  the  essential  nature  of 
the  Principle  in  question,  or  that  of  the  other  Charac- 
teristics, that  the  effect  which  follows  is  not  always  of  a 
pleasurable  kind ;  it  may  even  be  disagreeable.  What 


ART. 


109 


we  contend  for  is  simply  its  reality;  the  character  of  the 
perception,  like  that  of  every  other  truth,  depending  on 
the  individual  character  of  the  percipient.  The  com- 
mon truth  of  existence  in  a  living  person,  for  instance, 
may  be  to  us  either  a  matter  of  interest  or  indifference, 
nay,  even  of  disgust.  So  also  may  it  be  with  what 
is  true  in  Art.  Temperament,  ignorance,  cultivation, 
vulgarity,  and  refinement  have  all,  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree,  an  influence  in  our  impressions;  so  that  any 
reality  may  be  to  us  either  an  offence  or  a  pleasure, 
yet  still  a  reality.  In  Art,  as  in  Nature,  the  True  is 
imperative,  and  must  be  felt,  even  where  a  timid,  a 
proud,  or  a  selfish  motive  refuses  to  acknowledge  it. 

These  last  remarks  very  naturally  lead  us  to  another 
subject,  and  one  of  no  minor  importance ;  we  mean, 
the  education  of  an  Artist ;  on  this,  however,  we  shall 
at  present  add  but  a  few  words.  We  use  the  word 
education  in  its  widest  sense,  as  involving  not  only  the 
growth  and  expansion  of  the  intellect,  but  a  correspond- 
ing developement  of  the  moral  being ;  for  the  wisdom 
of  the  intellect  is  of  little  worth,  if  it  be  not  in  harmo- 
ny with  the  higher  spiritual  truth.  Nor  will  a  moder- 
ate, incidental  cultivation  suffice  to  him  who  would 
become  a  great  Artist.  He  must  sound  no  less  than 
the  full  depths  of  his  being  ere  he  is  fitted  for  his  call- 
ing; a  calling  in  its  very  condition  lofty,  demanding 
an  agent  by  whom,  from  the  actual,  living  world,  is  to 
be  wrought  an  imagined  consistent  world  of  Art,  —  not 
fantastic,  or  objectless,  but  having  a  purpose,  and  that 
purpose,  in  all  its  figments,  a  distinct  relation  to  man's 
nature,  and  all  that  pertains  to  it,  from  the  humblest 
emotion  to  the  highest  aspiration;  the  circle  that 
bounds  it  being  that  only  which  bounds  his  spirit,  — 
even  the  confines  of  that  higher  world,  where  ideal 
10 


110 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


glimpses  of  angelic  forms  are  sometimes  permitted  to 
his  sublimated  vision.  Art  may,  in  truth,  be  called  the 
human  world;  for  it  is  so  far  the  work  of  man,  that 
his  beneficent  Creator  has  especially  endowed  him 
with  the  powers  to  construct  it ;  and,  if  so,  surely  not 
for  his  mere  amusement,  but  as  a  part  (small  though  it 
be)  of  that  mighty  plan  which  the  Infinite  Wisdom 
has  ordained  for  the  evolution  of  the  human  spirit; 
whereby  is  intended,  not  alone  the  enlargement  of  his 
sphere  of  pleasure,  but  of  his  higher  capacities  of  ado- 
ration ;  — -  as  if,  in  the  gift,  he  had  said  unto  man, 
Thou  shalt  know  me  by  the  powers  I  have  given  thee. 
The  calling  of  an  Artist,  then,  is  one  of  no  common 
responsibility ;  and  it  well  becomes  him  to  consider  at 
the  threshold,  whether  he  shall  assume  it  for  high  and 
noble  purposes,  or  for  the  low  and  licentious. 


FORM. 


The  subject  proposed  for  the  following  discourse  is 
the  Human  Form ;  a  subject,  perhaps,  of  all  others 
connected  with  Art,  the  most  obscured  by  vague  theo- 
ries. It  is  one,  at  least,  of  such  acknowledged  diffi- 
culty as  to  constrain  the  writer  to  confess,  that  he  en- 
ters upon  it  with  more  distrust  than  hope  of  success. 
Should  he  succeed,  however,  in  disencumbering  this 
perplexed  theme  of  some  of  its  useless  dogmas,  it  will 
be  quite  as  much  as  he  has  allowed  himself  to  expect. 

The  object,  therefore,  of  the  present  attempt  will  be 
to  show,  first,  that  the  notion  of  one  or  more  stand- 
ard Forms,  which  shall  in  all  cases  serve  as  exemplars, 
is  essentially  false,  and  of  impracticable  application  for 
any  true  purpose  of  Art ;  secondly,  that  the  only  ap- 
proach to  Science,  which  the  subject  admits,  is  in  a 
few  general  rules  relating  to  Stature,  and  these,  too, 
serving  rather  as  convenient  expedients  than  exact 
guides,  inasmuch  as,  in  most  cases,  they  allow  of 
indefinite  variations ;  and,  thirdly,  that  the  only  effi- 
cient Rule  must  be  found  in  the  Artist's  mind,  —  in 
those  intuitive  Powers,  which  are  above,  and  beyond, 
both  the  senses  and  the  understanding ;  which,  never- 
theless, are  so  far  from  precluding  knowledge,  as,  on 


112 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


the  contrary,  to  require,  as  their  effective  condition,  the 
widest  intimacy  with  the  things  external,  —  without 
which  their  very  existence  must  remain  unknown  to 
the  Artist  himself. 

Supposing,  then,  certain  standard  Forms  to  have 
been  admitted,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  take  a  brief 
view  of  the  nature  of  the  Being  to  whom  they  are  in- 
tended to  be  applied  ;  and  to  consider  them  more  espe- 
cially as  auxiliaries  to  the  Artist. 

In  the  first  place,  we  observe,  that  the  purpose  of 
Art  is  not  to  represent  any  given  number  of  men,  but 
the  Human  Race ;  and  so  that  the  representation  shall 
affect  us,  not  indeed  as  living  to  the  senses,  but  as  true 
to  the  mind.    In  order  to  this,  there  must  be  all  in  the 
imitation  (though  it  be  but  hinted)  which  the  mind 
will  recognize  as  true  to  the  human  being :  hence  the 
first  business  of  the  Artist  is  to  become  acquainted 
with  his  subject  in  all  its  properties.    He  then  nat- 
urally inquires,  what  is  its  general  characteristic ;  and 
his  own  consciousness  informs  him,  that,  besides  an 
animal  nature,  there  is  also  a  moral  intelligence,  and 
that  they  together  form  the  man.    This  important  tru- 
ism (we  say  important,  for  it  seems  to  have  been  not 
seldom  overlooked)  makes  the  foundation  of  all  his 
future  observations ;  nor  can  he  advance  a  step  with- 
out continual  reference  to  this  double  nature.  We 
find  him  accordingly  in  the  daily  habit  of  mentally  dis- 
tinguishing this  person  from  that,  as  a  moral  being, 
and  of  assigning  to  each  a  separate  character  ;  and  this 
not  voluntarily,  but  simply  because  he  cannot  avoid  it. 
Yet,  by  what  does  he  presume  to  judge  of  strangers  ? 
He  will  probably  answer,  By  their  general  exterior. 
And  what  is  the  inference  ?    There  can  be  but  one ; 
namely,  that  there  must  be  —  at  least  to  him  —  some 


FORM. 


113 


efficient  correspondence  between  the  physical  and  the 
moral.  This  is  so  plain,  that  the  wonder  is,  how  it  ever 
came  to  be  doubted.  Nor  is  it  directly  denied,  except 
by  those  who  from  habitual  disgust  reject  the  guess- 
work of  the  various  pretenders  to  scientific  systems  ; 
yet  even  these,  no  less  than  others,  do  practically  ad- 
mit it  in  their  common  intercourse  with  the  world. 
And  it  cannot  be  otherwise ;  for  what  the  Creator  has 
joined  must  have  some  affinity,  although  the  palpable 
signs  may  elude  our  cognizance.  And  that  they  do 
elude  it,  except  perhaps  in  a  very  slight  degree,  is 
actually  the  case,  as  is  well  proved  by  the  signal  fail- 
ure of  all  attempts  to  reduce  them  to  a  science ;  for 
neither  diagram  nor  axiom  has  ever  yet  corrected  an 
instinctive  impression.  But  man  does  not  live  by 
science ;  he  feels,  acts,  and  judges  right  in  a  thousand 
things  without  the  consciousness  of  any  rule  by  which 
he  so  feels,  acts,  or  judges.  And,  happily  for  him, 
he  has  a  surer  guide  than  human  science  in  that 
unknown  Power  within  him,  —  without  which  he 
had  been  without  knowledge.  But  of  this  we  shall 
have  occasion  to  speak  again  in  another  part  of  our 
discourse. 

Though  the  medium  through  which  the  soul  acts 
be,  as  we  have  said,  elusive  to  the  senses,  —  in  so  far 
as  to  be  irreducible  to  any  distinct  form,  —  it  is  not 
therefore  the  less  real,  as  every  one  may  verify  by  his 
own  experience ;  and,  though  seemingly  invisible,  it 
must  nevertheless,  constituted  as  we  are,  act  through  the 
physical,  and  a  physical  medium  expressly  construct- 
ed for  its  peculiar  action  ;  nay,  it  does  this  continually, 
without  our  confounding  for  a  moment  the  soul  with  its 
instrument.  Who  can  look  into  the  human  eye,  and 
doubt  of  an  influence  not  of  the  body?  The  form  and 
10* 


114 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


color  leave  but  a  momentary  impression,  or,  if  we  re- 
member them,  it  is  only  as  we  remember  the  glass 
through  which  we  have  read  the  dark  problems  of  the 
sky.  But  in  this  mysterious  organ  we  see  not  even  the 
signs  of  its  mystery.  "We  see,  in  truth,  nothing ;  for 
what  is  there  has  neither  form,  nor  symbol,  nor  any 
thing  reducible  to  a  sensuous  distinctness  ;  and  yet  who 
can  look  into  it,  and  not  be  conscious  of  a  real  though 
invisible  presence  ?  In  the  eye  of  a  brute,  we  see  only 
a  part  of  the  animal;  it  gives  us  little  beyond  the 
palpable  outward ;  at  most,  it  is  but  the  focal  point  of 
its  fierce,  or  gentle,  affectionate,  or  timorous  character, 
— the  character  of  the  species.  But  in  man,  neither 
gentleness  nor  fierceness  can  be  more  than  as  relative 
conditions, — the  outward  moods  of  his  unseen  spirit; 
while  the  spirit  itself,  that  daily  and  hourly  sends  forth 
its  good  and  evil,  to  take  shape  from  the  body,  still  sits 
in  darkness.  Yet  have  we  that  which  can  surely  reach 
it;  even  our  own  spirit.  By  this  it  is  that  we  can 
enter  into  another's  soul,  sound  its  very  depths,  and 
bring  up  his  dark  thoughts,  nay,  place  them  before 
him  till  he  starts  at  himself;  and  more,  —  it  is  by  this 
we  knovj  that  even  the  tangible,  audible,  visible  world 
is  not  more  real  than  a  spiritual  intercourse.  And 
yet  without  the  physical  organ  who  can  hold  it  ?  We 
can  never  indeed  understand,  but  we  may  not  doubt, 
that  which  has  its  power  of  proof  in  a  single  act  of 
consciousnesss.  Nay,  we  may  add  that  we  cannot 
even  conceive  of  a  soul  without  a  correlative  form,  — 
though  it  be  in  the  abstract ;  and  vice  versa. 

For,  among  the  many  impossibilities,  it  is  not  the 
least  to  look  upon  a  living  human  form  as  a  thing; 
in  its  pictured  copies,  as  already  shown  in  a  former 
discourse,  it  may  be  a  thing,  and  a  beautiful  thing ; 


FORM. 


115 


but  the  moment  we  conceive  of  it  as  living,  if  it  show 
not  a  soul,  we  give  it  one  by  a  moral  necessity ;  and 
according  to  the  outward  will  be  the  spirit  with  which 
we  endow  it.  No  poetic  being,  supposed  of  our  spe- 
cies, ever  lived  to  the  imagination  without  some  in- 
dication of  the  moral ;  it  is  the  breath  of  its  life : 
and  this  is  also  true  in  the  converse ;  if  there  be  but 
a  hint  of  it,  it  will  instantly  clothe  itself  in  a  hu- 
man shape ;  for  the  mind  cannot  separate  them.  In 
the  whole  range  of  the  poetic  creations  of  the  great 
master  of  truth, — we  need  hardly  say  Shakspeare, 
—  not  an  instance  can  be  found  where  this  condition  of 
life  is  ever  wanting;  his  men  and  women  all  have 
souls.  So,  too,  when  he  peoples  the  air,  though  he  de- 
scribe no  form,  he  never  leaves  these  creatures  of  the 
brain  without  a  shape,  for  he  will  sometimes,  by  a  sin- 
gle touch  of  the  moral,  enable  us  to  supply  one.  Of 
this  we  have  a  striking  instance  in  one  of  his  most  un- 
substantial creations,  the  "  delicate  Ariel."  Not  an  al- 
lusion to  its  shape  or  figure  is  made  throughout  the 
play  ;  yet  we  assign  it  a  form  on  its  very  first  entrance, 
as  soon  as  Prospero  speaks  of  its  refusing  to  comply 
with  the  "  abhorred  commands  "  of  the  witch,  Sycorax. 
And  again,  in  the  fifth  act,  when  Ariel,  after  recounting 
the  sufferings  of  the  wretched  usurper  and  his  follow- 
ers, gently  adds,  — 

"  Your  charm  so  strongly  works  them, 
That,  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender." 

On  which  Prospero  remarks, — 

' *  Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions?  " 

Now,  whether  Shakspeare  intended  it  or  not,  it  is  not 
possible  after  this  for  the  reader  to  think  of  Ariel  but  in 


116 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


a  human  form ;  for  slight  as  these  hints  are,  if  they  do 
not  indicate  the  moral  affections,  they  at  least  imply 
something  akin  to  them,  which  in  a  manner  compels 
us  to  invest  the  gentle  Spirit  with  a  general  likeness  to 
our  own  physical  exterior,  though,  perhaps,  as  indistinct 
as  the  emotion  that  called  for  it. 

We  have  thus  considered  the  human  being  in  his 
complex  condition,  of  body  and  spirit,  or  physical  and 
moral;  showing  the  impossibility  of  even  thinking  of 
him  in  the  one,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other.  We  may, 
indeed,  successively  think  first  of  the  form,  and  then  of 
the  moral  character,  as  we  may  think  of  any  one  part 
of  either  analytically  ;  but  we  cannot  think  of  the  human 
being'  except  as  a  whole.  It  follows,  therefore,  as  a  con- 
sequence, that  no  imitation  of  man  can  be  true  which 
is  not  addressed  to  us  in  this  double  condition.  And 
here  it  may  be  observed,  that  in  Art  there  is  this  addi- 
tional requirement,  that  there  be  no  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  form  and  the  character  intended,  —  or  rather, 
that  the  form  must  express  the  character,  or  it  expresses 
nothing:  a  necessity  which  is  far  from  being  general 
in  actual  nature.    But  of  this  hereafter. 

Let  us  now  endeavour  to  form  some  general  notion 
of  Man  in  his  various  aspects,  as  presented  by  the  myri- 
ads which  people  the  earth.  But  whose  imagination  is 
equal  to  the  task,  —  to  the  setting  in  array  before  it  the 
countless  multitudes,  each  individual  in  his  proper  form, 
his  proper  character?  Were  this  possible,  we  should 
stand  amazed  at  the  interminable  differences,  the  hide- 
ous variety ;  and  that,  too,  no  less  in  the  moral,  than  in 
the  physical;  nay,  so  opposite  and  appalling  in  the 
former  as  hardly  to  be  figured  by  a  chain  of  animals, 
taking  for  the  extremes  the  fierce  and  filthy  hyena  and 
the  inoffensive  lamb.    This  is  man  in  the  concrete,  — 


FORM. 


117 


to  which,  according  to  some,  is  to  be  applied  the  ab- 
stract Ideal ! 

Now  let  us  attempt  to  conceive  of  a  being  that  shall 
represent  all  the  diversities  of  mind,  affections,  and  dis- 
positions, that  fleck  this  heterogeneous  mass  of  human- 
ity, and  then  to  conceive  of  a  Form  that  shall  be  in 
such  perfect  affinity  with  it  as  to  indicate  them  all. 
The  bare  statement  of  the  proposition  shows  its  absurd- 
ity. Yet  this  must  be  the  office  of  a  Standard  Form ; 
and  this  it  must  do,  or  it  will  be  a  falsehood.  Nor 
should  we  find  it  easier  with  any  given  number,  with 
twenty,  fifty,  nay,  an  hundred  (so  called)  generic  forms. 
We  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm,  that,  were  it  possible,  it 
would  be  quite  as  easy  with  one  as  with  a  thousand. 

But  to  this  it  may  be  replied,  that  the  Standard 
Form  was  never  intended  to  represent  the  vicious  or 
degraded,  but  man  in  his  most  perfect  developement  of 
mind,  affections,  and  body.  This  is  certainly  narrow- 
ing its  office,  and,  unfortunately,  to  the  representing  of 
but  one  man ;  consequently,  of  no  possible  use  beyond 
to  the  Painter  or  Sculptor  of  Humanity,  since  every 
repetition  of  this  perfect  form  would  be  as  the  reflec- 
tion of  one  multiplied  by  mirrors.  But  such  repeti- 
tions, it  may  be  further  answered,  were  never  contem- 
plated, that  Form  being  given  only  as  an  exemplar  of 
the  highest,  to  serve  as  a  guide  in  our  approach  to  ex- 
cellence ;  as  we  could  not  else  know  to  a  certainty  to 
what  degree  of  elevation  our  conceptions  might  rise. 
Still,  in  that  case  its  use  would  be  limited  to  a  single 
object,  that  is,  to  itself,  its  own  perfectness;  it  would 
not  aid  the  Artist  in  the  intermediate  ascent  to  it,  — 
unless  it  contained  within  itself  all  the  gradations  of 
human  character ;  which  no  one  will  pretend. 

But  let  us  see  how  far  it  is  possible  to  realize  the 
Tdea  of  a  perfect  Human  Form. 


118 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


We  have  already  seen  that  the  mere  physical  struc- 
ture is  not  man,  but  only  a  part ;  the  Idea  of  man  in- 
cluding also  an  internal  moral  being.  The  external, 
then,  in  an  actually  disjoined  state,  cannot,  strictly  speak- 
ing, be  the  human  form,  but  only  a  diagram  of  it.  It 
is,  in  fact,  but  a  partial  condition,  becoming  human 
only  when  united  with  the  internal  moral ;  which,  in 
proof  of  the  union,  it  must  of  necessity  indicate.  If 
we  would  have  a  true  Idea  of  it,  therefore,  it  must  be 
as  a  whole ;  consequently,  the  perfect  physical  exterior 
must  have,  as  an  essential  part,  the  perfect  moral. 
Now  come  two  important  questions.  First,  In  what 
consists  Moral  Perfection?  We  use  the  word  moral 
here  (from  a  want  in  our  language)  in  its  most  com- 
prehensive sense,  as  including  the  spiritual  and  the  in- 
tellectual. With  respect  to  that  part  of  our  moral  be- 
ing which  pertains  to  the  affections,  in  all  their  high  re- 
lations to  God  and  man,  we  have,  it  is  true,  a  sure  and 
holy  guide.  In  a  Christian  land,  the  humblest  individu- 
al may  answer  as  readily  as  the  most  profound  scholar, 
and  express  its  perfection  in  the  single  word,  Holi- 
ness. But  what  will  be  the  reply  in  regard  to  the  In- 
tellect? For  what  is  a  perfect  Intellect?  Is  it  the 
Dialectic,  the  Speculative,  or  the  Imaginative?  Or, 
rather,  would  it  not  include  them  all  ? 

We  proceed  next  to  the  Physical.  What,  then,  con- 
stitutes its  Perfection  ?  Here,  it  might  seem,  there  can 
be  no  difficulty,  and  the  reply  will  probably  be  in  nam- 
ing all  the  excellent  qualities  in  our  animal  nature,  such 
as  strength,  agility,  fleetness,  with  every  other  that  can  be 
thought  of.  The  bare  enumeration  of  these  few  quali- 
ties may  serve  to  show  the  nature  of  the  task ;  yet  a 
physically  perfect  form  requires  them  all ;  none  must  be 
omitted ;  it  would  else  be  imperfect ;  nay,  they  must 


FORM. 


119 


not  only  be  there,  but  all  be  developed  in  their  highest 
degrees.  We  might  here  exclaim  with  Hamlet,  though 
in  a  very  different  sense, 

"  A  combination  and  a  form  indeed !  " 
And  yet  there  is  no  other  way  to  express  physical 
perfection.  But  can  it  be  so  expressed  ?  The  reader 
must  reply  for  himself.  We  will,  however,  suppose  it 
possible ;  still  the  task  is  incomplete  without  the  ad- 
justment of  these  to  the  perfect  Moral,  in  the  high- 
est known  degrees  of  its  several  elements.  To  those 
who  can  imagine  such  a  form  as  shall  be  the  sure 
exponent  of  such  a  moral  being,  —  and  such  it  must 
be,  or  it  will  be  nothing,  —  we  leave  the  task  of  con- 
structing this  universal  exemplar  for  multitudinous  man. 
We  may  add,  however,  one  remark ;  that,  supposing 
it  possible  thus  to  concentrate,  and  with  equal  prom- 
inence, all  the  qualities  of  the  species  into  one  indi- 
vidual, it  can  only  be  done  by  supplanting  Providence, 
in  other  words,  by  virtually  overruling  the  great  princi- 
ple of  subordination  so  visibly  impressed  on  all  created 
life.  For  although,  as  we  have  elswhere  observed,  there 
can  be  no  sound  mind  (and  the  like  may  be  affirmed  of 
the  whole  man),  which  is  deficient  in  any  one  essential, 
it  does  not  therefore  follow,  that  each  of  these  essen- 
tials may  not  be  almost  indefinitely  differenced  in  the 
degrees  of  their  developement  without  impairing  the 
human  integrity.  And  such  is  the  fact  in  actual  na- 
ture ;  nor  does  this  in  any  wise  affect  the  individual 
unity,  —  as  will  be  noticed  hereafter. 

We  will  now  briefly  examine  the  pretensions  of  what 
are  called  the  Generic  Forms.  And  here  we  are  met 
by  another  important  characteristic  of  the  human  being, 
namely,  his  essential  individuality. 

It  is  true  that  the  human  family,  so  called,  is  divided 


120 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


into  many  distinct  races,  having  each  its  peculiar  con- 
formation, color,  and  so  forth,  which  together  constitute 
essential  differences  ;  but  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
these  essentials  are  all  physical ;  and  so  far  they  are 
properly  generic,  as  implying  a  difference  in  kind.  But, 
though  a  striking  difference  is  also  observable  in  their 
moral  being,  it  is  by  no  means  of  the  same  nature  with 
that  which  marks  their  physical  condition,  the  differ- 
ence in  the  moral  being  only  of  degree ;  for,  however 
fierce,  brutal,  stupid,  or  cunning,  or  gentle,  generous,  or 
heroic,  the  same  characteristics  may  each  be  paralleled 
among  ourselves ;  nay,  we  could  hardly  name  a  vice,  a 
passion,  or  a  virtue,  in  Asia,  Africa,  or  America,  that 
has  not  its  echo  in  civilized  Europe.  And  what  is  the 
inference?  That  climate  and  circumstance,  if  such 
are  the  causes  of  the  physical  variety,  have  no  con- 
trolling power,  except  in  degree,  over  the  Moral.  Does 
not  this  undeniable  fact,  then,  bring  us  to  the  fair  con- 
clusion, that  the  moral  being  has  no  genera  ?  To  affirm 
otherwise  would  be  virtually  to  deny  its  responsible 
condition;  since  the  law  of  its  genus  must  be  para- 
mount to  all  other  laws,  —  to  education,  government, 
religion.  Nor  can  the  result  be  evaded,  except  by  the 
absurd  supposition  of  generic  responsibilities!  To  us, 
therefore,  it  seems  conclusive  that  a  moral  being,  as  a 
free  agent,  cannot  be  subject  to  a  generic  law;  nor 
could  he  now  be  —  what  every  man  feels  himself  to  be, 
in  spite  of  his  theory  —  the  fearful  architect  of  his  own 
destiny.  In  one  sense,  indeed,  we  may  admit  a  human 
genus,  —  such  as  every  man  must  be  in  his  individual 
entireness. 

Man  has  been  called  a  microcosm,  or  little  world. 
And  such,  however  mean  and  contemptible  to  others, 
is  man  to  himself ;  nay,  such  he  must  ever  be,  whether 


FORM. 


121 


he  wills  it  or  not.  He  may  hate,  he  may  despise,  yet  he 
cannot  but  cling  to  that  without  which  he  is  not ;  he  is 
the  centre  and  the  circle,  be  it  of  pleasure  or  of  pain ; 
nor  can  he  be  other.  Touch  him  with  misery,  and  he 
becomes  paramount  to  the  whole  world,  —  to  a  thou- 
sand worlds ;  for  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  uni- 
verse are  as  nothing  to  him  who  is  all  darkness.  Then 
it  is  that  he  will  feel,  should  he  have  before  doubted, 
that  he  is  not  a  mere  part,  a  fraction,  of  his  kind,  but 
indeed  a  world ;  and  though  little  in  one  sense,  yet  a 
world  of  awful  magnitude  in  its  capacity  of  suffering. 
In  one  word,  Man  is  a  whole,  an  Individual 

If  the  preceding  argument  be  admitted,  it  will  be 
found  to  have  relieved  the  student  of  two  delusive 
dogmas,  —  and  the  more  delusive,  as  carrying  with 
them  a  plausible  show  of  science. 

As  to  the  flowery  declamations  about  Beauty,  they 
would  not  here  be  noticed,  were  they  not  occasionally 
met  with  in  works  of  high  merit,  and  not  unfrequently 
mixed  up  with  philosophic  truth.  If  they  have  any 
definite  meaning,  it  amounts  to  this,  —  that  the  Beau- 
tiful is  the  summit  of  every  possible  excellence !  The 
extravagance,  not  to  say  absurdity,  of  such  a  proposi- 
tion, confounding,  as  it  does,  all  received  distinctions, 
both  in  the  moral  and  the  natural  world,  needs  no  com- 
ment. It  is  hardly  to  be  believed,  however,  that  the 
writers  in  question  could  have  deliberately  intended 
this.  It  is  more  probable,  that,  in  so  expressing  them- 
selves, they  were  only  giving  vent  to  an  enthusiastic 
feeling,  which  we  all  know  is  generally  most  vague 
when  associated  with  admiration;  it  is  not  therefore 
strange  that  the  ardent  expression  of  it  should  partake 
of  its  vagueness.  Among  the  few  critical  works  of 
authority  in  which  the  word  is  so  used,  we  may  men* 
11 


122 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


tion  the  (in  many  respects  admirable)  Discourses  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  where  we  find  the  following 
sentence :  —  "  The  beauty  of  the  Hercules  is  one,  of  the 
Gladiator  another,  of  the  Apollo  another;  which,  of 
course,  would  present  three  different  Ideas  of  Beauty." 
If  this  had  been  said  of  various  animals,  differing  in 
kind,  the  term  so  applied  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
appropriate.  But  the  same  term  is  here  applied  to  ob- 
jects of  the  same  kind,  differing  not  essentially  even  in 
age ;  we  say  age,  inasmuch  as  in  the  three  great  di- 
visions, or  periods,  of  human  life,  namely,  childhood, 
youth,  and  maturity,  the  characteristic  conditions  of 
each  are  so  essentially  distinct,  as  virtually  to  separate 
them  into  positive  kinds. 

But  it  is  no  less  idle  than  invidious  to  employ  our 
time  in  overturning  the  errors  of  others ;  if  we  estab- 
lish Truth,  they  will  fall  of  themselves.  There  cannot 
be  two  right  sides  to  any  question ;  and,  if  we  are  right, 
what  is  opposed  to  us  must  of  necessity  he  wrong. 
Whether  we  are  so  or  not  must  be  determined  by  those 
who  admit  or  reject  what  has  already  been  advanced 
on  the  subject  of  Beauty,  in  the  first  Discourse.  It 
will  be  remembered,  that,  in  the  course  of  our  argument 
there,  we  were  brought  to  the  conclusion,  that  Beauty 
was  the  Idea  of  a  certain  physical  condition,  both  gen- 
eral and  ultimate ;  general,  as  presiding  over  objects  of 
many  kinds,  and  ultimate,  as  being  the  perfection  of 
that  peculiar  condition  in  each,  and  therefore  not  appli- 
cable to,  or  representing,  its  degrees  in  any  ;  which,  as 
approximations  only  to  the  one  supreme  Idea,  should 
truly  be  distinguished  by  other  terms.  Accordingly, 
we  cannot,  strictly  speaking,  say  of  two  persons  of 
the  same  age  and  sex,  differing  from  each  other,  that 
they  are  equally  beautiful.    We  hear  this,  indeed,  al- 


FORM. 


123 


most  daily ;  it  is  nevertheless  not  the  true  expression  of 
the  actual  impression  made  on  the  speaker,  though  he 
may  not  take  the  trouble  to  examine  and  compare 
them.  But  let  him  do  so,  and  we  doubt  not  that  he 
would  find  the  one  to  rise  (in  however  slight  a  degree) 
above  the  other ;  and,  if  he  did  not  assign  a  different 
term  to  the  lower,  it  would  be  only  because  he  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  marking,  or  did  not  think  it 
worth  his  while  to  note,  such  nice  distinctions. 

If  there  is  a  first  and  a  last  to  any  thing,  the  inter- 
mediates can  be  neither  one  nor  the  other ;  and,  if  we 
so  name  them,  we  speak  falsely.  It  is  no  less  so  with 
Beauty,  which,  being  at  the  head,  or  first  in  a  series, 
admits  no  transference  of  its  title.  We  mean,  if  speak- 
ing strictly;  which,  however,  we  freely  acknowledge, 
no  one  can ;  but  that  is  owing  to  the  insufficiency  of 
language,  which  in  no  dialect  could  supply  a  hundredth 
part  of  the  terms  needed  to  mark  every  minute  shade 
of  difference.  Perhaps  no  subject  requiring  a  wider 
nomenclature  has  one  so  contracted;  and  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  no  subject  is  more  obscured  by  vague 
expressions.  But  it  is  the  business  of  the  Artist,  if  he 
cannot  form  to  himself  the  corresponding  terms,  to  be 
prepared  at  least  to  perceive  and  to  note  these  various 
shades.  We  do  not  say,  that  an  actual  acquaintance 
with  all  the  nice  distinctions  is  an  essential  requisite, 
but  only  that  it  will  not  be  altogether  useless  to  be 
aware  of  their  existence ;  at  any  rate,  it  may  serve  to 
shield  him  from  the  annoyance  of  false  criticism,  when 
censured  for  wanting  beauty  where  its  presence  would 
have  been  an  impertinence. 

Before  we  quit  the  subject,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to 
observe,  that,  in  the  preceding  remarks,  our  object  has 
been  not  so  much  to  insist  on  correct  speaking  as  correct 


124 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


thinking.  The  poverty  of  language,  as  already  ad- 
mitted, has  made  the  former  impossible  ;  but,  though 
constrained  in  this,  as  in  many  other  cases  where  a 
subordinate  is  put  for  its  principal,  to  apply  the  term 
Beautiful  to  its  various  degrees,  yet  a  right  apprehen- 
sion of  what  Beauty  is  may  certainly  prevent  its  mis- 
application as  to  other  objects  having  no  relation  to  it. 
Nor  is  this  a  small  matter  where  the  avoiding  of  con- 
fusion is  an  object  desirable  ;  and  there  is  clearly  some 
difference  between  an  approach  to  precision  and  utter 
vagueness. 

We  have  now  to  consider  how  far  the  Correspond- 
ence between  the  outward  form  and  the  inward  being, 
which  is  assumed  by  the  Artist,  is  supported  by  fact. 

In  a  fair  statement,  then,  of  facts,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  with  the  mass  of  men  the  outward  intimation  of 
character  is  certainly  very  faint,  with  many  obscure,  and 
with  some  ambiguous,  while  with  others  it  has  often 
seemed  to  express  the  very  reverse  of  the  truth.  Per- 
haps a  stronger  instance  of  the  latter  could  hardly 
occur  than  that  cited  in  a  former  discourse  in  illus- 
tration of  the  physical  relation  of  Beauty ;  where  it 
was  shown  that  the  first  and  natural  impression  from 
a  beautiful  form  was  not  only  displaced,  but  complete- 
ly reversed,  by  the  revolting  discovery  of  a  moral  dis- 
crepancy. But  while  we  admit,  on  the  threshold,  that 
the  Correspondence  in  question  cannot  be  sustained  as 
universally  obvious,  it  is,  nevertheless,  not  apprehended 
that  this  admission  can  affect  our  argument,  which, 
though  in  part  grounded  on  special  cases  of  actual 
coincidence,  is  yet  supported  by  other  evidences,  which 
lead  us  to  regard  all  such  discrepancies  rather  as  ex- 
ceptions, and  as  so  many  deviations  from  the  original 
law  of  our  nature,  nay,  which  lead  us  also  rationally 


FORM. 


125 


to  infer  at  least  a  future,  potential  correspondence  in 
every  individual.  To  the  past,  indeed,  we  cannot 
appeal ;  neither  can  the  past  be  cited  against  us,  since 
little  is  known  of  the  early  history  of  our  race  but  a 
chronicle  of  their  actions  ;  of  their  outward  appearance 
scarcely  any  thing,  certainly  not  enough  to  warrant 
a  decision  one  way  or  the  other.  Should  we  assume, 
then,  the  Correspondence  as  a  primeval  law,  who  shall 
gainsay  it?  It  is  not,  however,  so  asserted.  We 
may  nevertheless  hold  it  as  a  matter  of  faith ;  and 
simply  as  such  it  is  here  submitted.  But  faith  of  any 
kind  must  have  some  ground  to  rest  on,  either  real  or 
supposed,  either  that  of  authority  or  of  inference.  Our 
ground  of  faith,  then,  in  the  present  instance,  is  in  the 
universal  desire  amongst  men  to  realize  the  Correspond- 
ence. Nothing  is  more  common  than,  on  hearing  or 
reading  of  any  remarkable  character,  to  find  this  in- 
stinctive craving,  if  we  may  so  term  it,  instantly 
awakened,  and  actively  employed  in  picturing  to  the 
imagination  some  corresponding  form  ;  nor  is  any  dis- 
appointment more  general,  than  that  which  follows  the 
detection  of  a  discrepancy  on  actual  acquaintance. 
Indeed,  we  can  hardly  deem  it  rash,  should  we  rest  the 
validity  of  this  universal  desire  on  the  common  experi- 
ence of  any  individual,  taken  at  random,  —  provided 
only  that  he  has  a  particle  of  imagination.  Nor  is  its 
action  dependent  on  our  caprice  or  will.  Ask  any 
person  of  ordinary  cultivation,  not  to  say  refinement, 
how  it  is  with  him,  when  his  imagination  has  not 
been  forestalled  by  some  definite  fact ;  whether  he  has 
never  found  himself  involuntarily  associating  the  good 
with  the  beautiful,  the  energetic  with  the  strong,  the 
dignified  with  the  ample,  or  the  majestic  with  the  lofty; 
the  refined  with  the  delicate,  the  modest  with  the  Corne- 
ll * 


126 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


ly ;  the  base  with  the  ugly,  the  brutal  with  the  mis- 
shapen, the  fierce  with  the  coarse  and  muscular,  and  so 
on ;  there  being  scarcely  a  shade  of  character  to  which 
the  imagination  does  not  affix  some  corresponding 
form. 

In  a  still  more  striking  form  may  we  find  the  evi- 
dence of  the  law  supposed,  if  we  turn  to  the  young, 
and  especially  to  those  of  a  poetic  temperament,  —  to 
the  sanguine,  the  open,  and  confiding,  the  creatures  of 
impulse,  who  reason  best  when  trusting  only  to  the 
spontaneous  suggestions  of  feeling.  What  is  more 
common  than  implicit  faith  in  their  youthful  day- 
dreams, —  a  faith  that  lives,  though  dream  after  dream 
vanish  into  common  air  when  the  sorcerer  Fact  touches 
their  eyes?  And  whence  this  pertinacious  faith  that 
will  not  die,  but  from  a  spring  of  life,  that  neither  cus- 
tom nor  the  dry  understanding  can  destroy  ?  Look 
at  the  same  Youth  at  a  more  advanced  age,  when  the 
refining  intellect  has  mixed  with  his  affections,  adding 
thought  and  sentiment  to  every  thing  attractive,  con- 
verting all  things  fair  to  things  also  of  good  report. 
Let  us  turn,  at  the  same  time,  to  one  still  more  ad- 
vanced, —  even  so  far  as  to  have  entered  into  the  con- 
ventional valley  of  dry  bones,  —  one  whom  the  world 
is  preparing,  by  its  daily  practical  lessons,  to  enlighten 
with  unbelief.  If  we  see  them  together,  perhaps  we 
shall  hear  the  senior  scoff  at  his  younger  companion  as 
a  poetic  dreamer,  as  a  hunter  after  phantoms  that 
never  were,  nor  could  be,  in  nature  :  then  may  follow  a 
homily  on  the  virtues  of  experience,  as  the  only  securi- 
ty against  disappointment.  But  there  are  some  hearts 
that  never  suffer  the  mind  to  grow  old.  And  such  we 
may  suppose  that  of  the  dreamer.  If  he  is  one,  too, 
who  is  accustomed  to  look  into  himself,  —  not  as  a 


FORM. 


127 


reasoner,  —  but  with  an  abiding  faith  in  his  nature,  — 
we  shall,  perhaps,  hear  him  reply,  —  Experience,  it  is  true, 
has  often  brought  me  disappointment ;  yet  I  cannot  dis- 
trust those  dreams,  as  you  call  them,  bitterly  as  I  have 
felt  their  passing  off;  for  I  feel  the  truth  of  the  source 
whence  they  come.  They  could  not  have  been  so  re- 
sponded to  by  my  living  nature,  were  they  but  phan- 
toms ;  they  could  not  have  taken  such  forms  of  truth, 
but  from  a  possible  ground. 

By  the  word  poetic  here,  we  do  not  mean  the  vision- 
ary or  fanciful,  —  for  there  may  be  much  fancy  where 
there  is  no  poetic  feeling,  —  but  that  sensibility  to  har- 
mony which  marks  the  temperament  of  the  Artist,  and 
which  is  often  most  active  in  his  earlier  years.  And  we 
refer  to  such  natures,  not  only  as  being  more  peculiarly 
alive  to  all  existing  affinities,  but  as  never  satisfied  with 
those  merely  which  fall  within  their  experience ;  ever 
striving,  on  the  contrary,  as  if  impelled  by  instinct,  to 
supply  the  deficiency  wherever  it  is  felt.  From  such 
minds  proceed  what  are  called  romantic  imaginings, 
but  what  we  would  call  —  without  intending  a  paradox 

—  the  romance  of  Truth.  For  it  is  impossible  that  the 
mind  should  ever  have  this  perpetual  craving  for  the 
False. 

But  the  desire  in  question  is  not  confined  to  any  par- 
ticular age  or  temperament,  though  it  is,  doubtless,  more 
ardent  in  some  than  in  others.  Perhaps  it  is  only 
denied  to  the  habitually  vicious.  For  who,  not  harden- 
ed by  vice,  has  ever  looked  upon  a  sleeping  child  in  its 
first  bloom  of  beauty,  and  seen  its  pure,  fresh  hues,  its 
ever  varying,  yet  according  lines,  moulding  and  suffus- 
ing, in  their  playful  harmony,  its  delicate  features, 

—  who,  not  callous,  has  ever  looked  upon  this  ex- 
quisite creature5  (so  like  what  a  poet  might  fancy  of 


128 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


visible  music,  or  embodied  odors,)  and  has  not  felt 
himself  carried,  as  it  were,  out  of  this  present  world, 
in  quest  of  its  moral  counterpart?  It  seems  to  us 
perfect ;  we  desire  no  change,  —  not  a  line  or  a  hue 
but  as  it  is ;  and  yet  we  have  a  paradoxical  feeling  of  a 
want,  —  for  it  is  all  physical ;  and  we  supply  that  want 
by  endowing  the  child  with  some  angelic  attribute. 
Why  do  we  this?  To  make  it  a  whole, — not  to  the 
eye,  but  to  the  mind. 

Nor  is  this  general  disposition  to  find  a  coincidence 
between  a  fair  exterior  and  moral  excellence  altogether 
unsupported  by  facts  of,  at  least,  a  partial  realization. 
For,  though  a  perfect  correspondence  cannot  be  look- 
ed for  in  a  state  where  all  else  is  imperfect,  he  is 
most  unfortunate  who  has  never  met  with  many,  and 
very  near,  approximations  to  the  desired  union.  But 
we  have  a  still  stronger  assurance  of  their  predeter- 
mined affinity  in  the  peculiar  activity  of  this  desire 
where  there  is  no  such  approximation.  For  example, 
when  we  meet  with  an  instance  of  the  higher  virtues 
in  an  unattractive  form,  how  natural  the  wish  that  that 
form  were  beautiful !  So,  too,  on  beholding  a  beautiful 
person,  how  common  the  wish  that  the  mind  it  clothed 
were  also  good !  What  are  these  wishes  but  uncon- 
scious retrospects  to  our  primitive  nature  ?  And  why 
have  we  them,  if  they  be  not  the  workings  of  that 
universal  law,  which  gathers  to  itself  all  scattered  af- 
finities, bodying  them  forth  in  the  never-ending  forms 
of  harmony,  —  in  the  flower,  in  the  tree,  in  the  bird,  and 
the  animal, — if  they  be  not  the  evidence  of  its  continu- 
ous, though  fruitless,  effort  to  evolve  too  in  man  its  last 
consummate  work,  by  the  perfect  confluence  of  the 
body  and  the  spirit?  In  this  universal  yearning  (for  it 
seems  to  us  no  less)  to  connect  the  physical  with  its 


FORM. 


129 


appropriate  moral,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  mysterious 
intuition  that  points  to  the  appropriate,  —  is  there  not 
something  like  a  clew  to  what  was  originally  natural  ? 
And,  again,  in  the  never-ceasing  strivings  of  the  two 
great  elements  of  our  being,  each  to  supply  the  defi- 
ciencies of  the  other,  have  we  not  also  an  intimation 
of  something  that  once  tvas,  that  is  now  lost,  and  would 
be  recovered  ?  Surely  there  must  be  more  in  this  than 
a  mere  concernment  of  Art ;  —  if,  indeed,  there  be  not 
in  Art  more  of  the  prophetic  than  we  are  now  aware 
of.  To  us  it  seems  that  this  irrepressible  desire  to  find 
the  good  in  the  beautiful,  and  the  beautiful  in  the  good, 
implies  an  end,  both  beyond  and  above  the  trifling 
present ;  pointing  to  deep  and  dark  questions,  —  to  no 
less  than  where  the  mysteries  which  surround  us  will 
meet  their  solution.  One  great  mystery  we  see  in  part 
resolving  itself  here.  We  see  the  deformities  of  the 
body  sometimes  giving  place  to  its  glorious  tenant. 
Some  of  us  may  have  witnessed  this,  and  felt  the  spir- 
itual presence  gaining  daily  upon  us,  till  the  outward 
shape  seemed  lost  in  its  brightness,  leaving  no  trace  in 
the  memory. 

Whether  the  position  we  have  endeavoured  to  estab- 
lish be  disputed  or  not,  the  absolute  correspondence  be- 
tween the  Moral  and  the  Physical  is,  at  any  rate,  the  es- 
sential ground  of  the  Plastic  arts  ;  which  could  not  else 
exist,  since  through  Form  alone  they  have  to  convey, 
not  only  thought  and  emotion,  but  distinct  and  perma- 
nent character.  For  our  own  part,  we  cannot  but  con 
sider  their  success  in  this  as  having  settled  the  ques- 
tion. 

From  the  view  here  presented,  what  is  the  inference 
in  relation  to  Art  ?  That  Man,  as  a  compound  being, 
cannot  be  represented  without  an  indication  as  well  of 


130 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


Mind  as  of  body;  that,  by  a  natural  law  which  we 
cannot  resist,  we  do  continually  require  that  they  be  to 
us  as  mutual  exponents,  the  one  of  the  other ;  and, 
finally,  that,  as  a  responsible  being,  and  therefore  a  free 
agent,  he  cannot  be  truly  represented,  either  to  the  mem- 
ory or  to  the  imagination,  but  as  an  Individual. 

It  would  seem,  also,  from  the  indefinite  varieties  in 
men,  though  occasioned  only  by  the  mere  difference  of 
degrees  in  their  common  faculties  and  powers,  that  the 
coincidence  of  an  equal  developement  of  all  was  nev- 
er intended  in  nature  ;  but  that  some  one  or  more 
of  them,  becoming  dominant,  should  distinguish  the 
individual.  It  follows,  therefore,  if  this  be  the  case, 
that  only  through  the  phase  of  such  predominance  can 
the  human  being  ever  be  contemplated.  To  the  Artist, 
then,  it  becomes  the  only  safe  ground;  the  starting- 
point  from  whence  to  ascend  to  a  true  Ideal,  —  which  is 
no  other  than  a  partial  individual  truth  made  whole  in 
the  mind:  and  thus,  instead  of  one  Ideal,  and  that 
baseless,  he  may  have  a  thousand,  —  nay,  as  many  as 
there  are  marked  or  apprehensible  individuals. 

But  we  must  not  be  understood  as  confining  Art  to 
actual  portraits.  Within  such  limits  there  could  not  be 
Art,  —  certainly  not  Art  in  its  highest  sense  ;  we  should 
have  in  its  place  what  would  be  little  better  than  a 
doubtful  empiricism;  since  the  most  elevated  subject, 
in  the  ablest  hands,  would  depend,  of  necessity,  on  the 
chance  success  of  a  search  after  models.  And,  sup- 
posing that  we  bring  together  only  the  rarest  forms, 
still  those  forms,  simply  as  circumscribed  portraits,  and 
therefore  insulated  parts,  would  instantly  close  every 
avenue  to  the  imagination ;  for  such  is  the  law  of  the 
imagination,  that  it  cannot  admit,  or,  in  other  words, 
recognize  as  a  whole,  that  which  remains  unmodified 


FORM. 


131 


by  some  imaginative  power,  which  alone  can  give 
unity  to  separate  and  distinct  objects.  Yet,  as  it  re- 
gards man,  all  true  Art  does,  and  must,  find  its  proper 
object  in  the  Individual:  as  without  individuality  there 
could  not  be  character,  nor  without  character,  the 
human  being. 

But  here  it  may  be  asked,  In  what  manner,  if  we 
resort  not  to  actual  portrait,  is  the  Individual  Man  to 
be  expressed  ?  We  answer,  By  carrying  out  the  natu- 
ral individual  predominant  fragment,  which  is  visible  to 
us  in  actual  Form,  to  its  full,  consistent  developement. 
The  Individual  is  thus  idealized,  when,  in  the  complete 
accordance  of  all  its  parts,  it  is  presented  to  the  mind 
as  a  ivhole. 

When  we  apply  the  term  fragment  to  a  human  be- 
ing, we  do  not  mean  in  relation  to  his  species,  (in  re- 
gard to  which  we  have  already  shown  him  to  be  a  dis- 
tinct whole,)  but  in  relation  to  the  Idea,  to  which  his 
predominant  characteristic  suggests  itself  but  as  a  par- 
tial manifestation,  and  made  partial  because  counter- 
acted by  some  inadequate  exponent,  or  else  modified  by 
other,  though  minor,  characteristics. 

How  this  is  effected  must  be  left  to  the  Artist  him- 
self. It  is  impossible  to  prescribe  a  rule  that  would  be 
to  much  purpose  for  any  one  who  stands  in  need  of 
such  instruction ;  if  his  own  mind  does  not  suggest  the 
mode,  it  would  not  even  be  intelligible.  Perhaps  our 
meaning,  however,  may  be  made  more  obvious,  if  we 
illustrate  it  by  example.  We  would  refer,  then,  to  the 
restoration  of  a  statue,  (a  thing  often  done  with  success,) 
where,  from  a  single  fragment,  the  unknown  Form  has 
been  completely  restored,  and  so  remoulded,  that  the 
parts  added  are  in  perfect  unity  with  the  suggestive 
fragment.    Now  the  parts  wanting  having  never  been 


132 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


seen,  this  cannot  be  called  a  mere  act  of  the  memory. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  not  from  nothing  that  man  can  pro- 
duce even  the  semblance  of  any  thing.  The  materials 
of  the  Artist  are  the  work  of  Him  who  created  the  Artist 
himself;  but  over  these,  which  his  senses  and  mind  are 
given  him  to  observe  and  collect,  he  has  a  delegated 
power,  for  the  purpose  of  combining  and  modifying,  as 
unlimited  as  mysterious.  It  is  by  the  agency  of  this 
intuitive  and  assimilating  Power,  elsewhere  spoken  of, 
that  he  is  able  to  separate  the  essential  from  the  acci- 
dental, to  proceed  also  from  a  part  to  the  whole  ;  thus 
educing,  as  it  were,  an  Ideal  nature  from  the  germs  of 
the  Actual. 

Nor  does  the  necessity  of  referring  to  Nature  preclude 
the  Imaginative,  or  any  other  class  of  Art  that  rests  its 
truth  in  the  desires  of  the  mind.  In  an  especial  man- 
ner must  the  personification  of  Sentiment,  of  the  Ab- 
stract, which  owe  their  interest  to  the  common  desire  of 
rendering  permanent,  by  embodying,  that  which  has 
given  us  pleasure,  take  its  starting-point  from  the  Actu- 
al; from  something  which,  by  universal  association 
or  particular  expression,  shall  recall  the  Sentiment, 
Thought,  or  Time,  and  serve  as  their  exponents  ;  there 
being  scarcely  an  object  in  Nature  which  the  spirit  of 
man  has  not,  as  it  were,  impressed  with  sympathy,  and 
linked  with  his  being.  Of  this,  perhaps,  we  could  not 
have  a  more  striking  example  than  in  the  Aurora  of 
Michael  Angelo ;  which,  if  not  universal,  is  not  so  only 
because  the  faculty  addressed  is  by  no  means  common. 
For,  as  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  Imaginative  is 
its  suggestive  power,  the  effect  of  this  figure  must  of 
necessity  differ  in  different  minds.  As  in  many  other 
cases,  there  must  needs  be  at  least  some  degree  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  mind  that  imagined  it,  in  order  to  any 


FORM, 


133 


impression  ;  and  the  degree  in  which  that  is  made  will 
always  be  in  proportion  to  the  congeniality  between  the 
agent  and  the  recipient.  Should  it  appear,  then,  to  any 
one  as  a  thing  of  no  meaning,  it  is  not  therefore  con- 
clusive that  the  Artist  has  failed.  For,  if  there  be  but 
one  in  a  thousand  to  whose  mind  it  recalls  the  deep 
stillness  of  Night,  gradually  broken  by  the  awakening 
stir  of  Day,  with  its  myriad  forms  of  life  emerging  into 
motion,  while  their  lengthened  shadows,  undistinguish- 
ed from  their  objects,  seem  to  people  the  earth  with  gi- 
gantic beings ;  then  the  dim,  gray  monotony  of  color 
transforming  them  to  stone,  yet  leaving  them  in  motion, 
till  the  whole  scene  becomes  awful  and  mysterious  as 
with  moving  statues ;  —  if  there  be  but  one  in  ten  thou- 
sand who  shall  have  thus  imagined,  as  he  stands  before 
this  embodied  Dawn,  then  is  it,  for  every  purpose  of 
feeling  through  the  excited  imagination,  as  true  and 
real  as  if  instinct  with  life,  and  possessing  the  mind  by 
its  living  will.  Nor  is  the  number  so  rare  of  those  who 
have  thus  felt  the  suggestive  sorcery  of  this  sublime 
Statue.  But  the  mind  so  influenced  must  be  one  to  re- 
spond to  sublime  emotions,  since  such  was  the  emotion 
which  inspired  the  Artist.  If  susceptible  only  to  the 
gay  and  beautiful,  it  will  not  answer.  For  this  is  not 
the  Aurora  of  golden  purple,  of  laughing  flowers  and 
jewelled  dew-drops;  but  the  dark  Enchantress,  enthron- 
ed on  rocks,  or  craggy  mountains,  and  whose  proper 
empire  is  the  shadowy  confines  of  light  and  darkness. 

How  all  this  is  done,  we  shall  not  attempt  to  explain. 
Perhaps  the  Artist  himself  could  not  answer ;  as  to  the 
quo  modo  in  every  particular,  we  doubt  if  it  were  possi- 
ble to  satisfy  another.  He  may  tell  us,  indeed,  that 
having  imagined  certain  appearances  and  effects  pecu- 
liar to  the  Time,  he  endeavoured  to  imbue,  as  it  were, 
12 


134 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


some  human  form  with  the  sentiment  they  awakened, 
so  that  the  embodied  sentiment  should  associate  itself 
in  the  spectator's  mind  with  similar  images  ;  and  further 
endeavoured,  that  the  form  selected  should,  by  its  air, 
attitude,  and  gigantic  proportions,  also  excite  the  ideas 
of  vastness,  solemnity,  and  repose ;  adding  to  this  that 
indefinite  expression,  which,  while  it  is  felt  to  act,  still 
leaves  no  trace  of  its  indistinct  action.  So  far,  it  is  true, 
lie  may  retrace  the  process;  but  of  the  informing  life 
that  quickened  his  fiction,  thus  presenting  the  presiding 
Spirit  of  that  ominous  Time,  he  knows  nothing  but  that 
he  felt  it,  and  imparted  it  to  the  insensible  marble. 

And  now  the  question  will  naturally  occur,  Is  all 
that  has  been  done  by  the  learned  in  Art,  to  estab- 
lish certain  canons  of  Proportion,  utterly  useless  ?  By 
no  means.  If  rightly  applied,  and  properly  considered, 
—  as  it  seems  to  us  they  must  have  been  by  the  great 
artists  of  Antiquity,  —  as  expedient  fictions,  they  un- 
doubtedly deserve  at  least  a  careful  examination.  And, 
inasmuch  as  they  are  the  result  of  a  comparison  of 
the  finest  actual  forms  through  successive  ages,  and 
as  they  indicate  the  general  limits  which  Nature  has 
been  observed  to  assign  to  her  noblest  works,  they 
are  so  far  to  be  valued.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten, 
that,  while  a  race,  or  class,  may  be  generally  marked 
by  a  certain  average  height  and  breadth,  or  curve  and 
angle,  still  is  every  class  and  race  composed  of  Individ- 
uals, who  must  needs,  as  such,  differ  from  each  other; 
and  though  the  difference  be  slight,  yet  is  it  "  the  little 
more,  or  the  little  less,"  which  often  separates  the  great 
from  the  mean,  the  wise  from  the  foolish,  in  human 
character ;  — -  nay,  the  widest  chasms  are  sometimes 
made  by  a  few  lines  :  so  that,  in  every  individual  case, 
the  limits  in  question  are  rather  to  be  departed  from, 
than  strictly  adhered  to. 


FORM. 


135 


The  canon  of  the  Schools  is  easily  mastered  by 
every  student  who  has  only  memory ;  yet  of  the  hun- 
dreds who  apply  it,  how  few  do  so  to  any  purpose ! 
Some  ten  or  twenty,  perhaps,  call  up  life  from  the  quar- 
ry, and  flesh  and  blood  from  the  canvas ;  the  rest 
conjure  in  vain  with  their  canon ;  they  call  up  nothing 
but  the  dead  measures.  Whence  the  difference  ?  The 
answer  is  obvious,  —  In  the  different  minds  they  each 
carry  to  their  labors. 

But  let  us  trace,  with  the  Artist,  the  beginning  and 
progress  of  a  successful  work ;  a  picture,  for  instance. 
His  method  of  proceeding  may  enable  us  to  ascertain 
how  far  he  is  assisted  by  the  science,  so  called,  of  which 
we  are  speaking.  He  adjusts  the  height  and  breadth  of 
his  figures  according  to  the  canon,  either  by  the  divis- 
ion of  heads  or  faces,  as  most  convenient.  By  these 
means,  he  gets  the  general  divisions  in  the  easiest  and 
most  expeditious  way.  But  could  he  not  obtain  them 
without  such  aid  ?  He  would  answer,  Yes,  by  the  eye 
alone ;  but  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  were  he  so  to 
proceed,  since  he  would  have  to  do,  and  undo,  perhaps 
twenty  times,  before  he  could  erect  this  simple  scaffold- 
ing ;  whereas,  by  applying  these  rules,  whose  general 
truth  is  already  admitted,  he  accomplishes  his  object  in 
a  few  minutes.  Here  we  admit  the  use  of  the  canon, 
and  admire  the  facility  with  which  it  enables  his  hand, 
almost  without  the  aid  of  a  thought,  thus  to  lay  out 
his  work.  But  here  ends  the  science ;  and  here  begins 
what  may  seem  to  many  the  work  of  mutilation:  a 
leg,  an  arm,  a  trunk,  is  increased,  or  diminished ;  line 
after  line  is  erased,  or  retrenched,  or  extended,  again  and 
again,  till  not  a  trace  remains  of  the  original  draught. 
If  he  is  asked  now  by  what  he  is  guided  in  these  in- 
numerable changes,  he  can  only  answer,  By  the  feeling 


136 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


within  me.  Nor  can  he  better  tell  how  he  knows  when  he 
has  hit  the  mark.  The  same  feeling  responds  to  its  truth ; 
and  he  repeats  his  attempts  until  that  is  satisfied. 

It  would  appear,  then,  that  in  the  Mind  alone  is  to  be 
found  the  true  or  ultimate  Rule,  —  if,  indeed,  that  can 
be  called  a  rule  which  changes  its  measure  with  every 
change  of  character.  It  is  therefore  all-important  that 
every  aid  be  sought  which  may  in  any  way  contribute 
to  the  due  developement  of  the  mental  powers ;  and 
no  one  will  doubt  the  efficiency  here  of  a  good  general 
education.  As  to  the  course  of  study,  that  must  be 
left  in  a  great  measure  to  be  determined  by  the  stu- 
dent; it  will  be  best  indicated  by  his  own  natural 
wants.  We  may  observe,  however,  that  no  species  of 
knowledge  can  ever  be  oppressive  to  real  genius,  whose 
peculiar  privilege  is  that  of  subordinating  all  things  to 
the  paramount  desire.  But  it  is  not  likely  that  a  mind 
so  endowed  will  be  long  diverted  by  any  studies  that 
do  not  either  strengthen  its  powers  by  exercise,  or  have 
a  direct  bearing  on  some  particular  need. 

If  the  student  be  a  painter,  or  a  sculptor,  he  will  not 
need  to  be  told  that  a  knowledge  of  the  human  being,  in 
all  his  complicated  springs  of  action,  is  not  more  essen- 
tial to  the  poet  than  to  him.  Nor  will  a  true  Artist 
require  to  be  reminded,  that,  though  himself  must  be 
his  ultimate  dictator  and  judge,  the  allegiance  of  the 
world  is  not  to  be  commanded  either  by  a  dreamer 
or  a  dogmatist.  And  nothing,  perhaps,  would  be  more 
likely  to  secure  him  from  either  character,  than  the  habit 
of  keeping  his  eyes  open,  —  nay,  his  very  heart ;  nor 
need  he  fear  to  open  it  to  the  whole  world,  since  noth- 
ing not  kindred  will  enter  there  to  abide  ;  for 

"  Evil  into  the  mind  

May  come  and  go,  so  unapproved,  and  leave 
No  spot  or  blame  behind." 


FORM. 


137 


And  he  may  also  be  sure  that  a  pure  heart  will  shed  a 
refining  light  on  his  intellect,  which  it  may  not  receive 
from  any  other  source. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  an  Artist,  so  disci- 
plined, will  overlook  the  works  of  his  predecessors,  — 
especially  those  exquisite  remains  of  Antiquity  which 
time  has  spared  to  us.  But  to  his  own  discretion 
must  be  left  the  separating  of  the  factitious  from  the 
true,  —  a  task  of  some  moment ;  for  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  a  mere  antiquarian  respect  for  whatever  is 
ancient  has  preserved,  with  the  good,  much  that  is 
worthless.  Indeed,  it  is  to  little  purpose  that  the  finest 
forms  are  set  before  us,  if  we  feel  not  their  truth.  And 
here  it  may  be  well  to  remark,  that  an  injudicious  word 
has  often  given  a  wrong  direction  to  the  student,  from 
which  he  has  found  it  difficult  to  recover  when  his 
maturer  mind  has  perceived  the  error.  It  is  a  common 
thing  to  hear  such  and  such  statues,  or  pictures,  recom- 
mended as  models.  If  the  advice  is  followed,  —  as  it 
too  often  is  literally r,  —  the  consequence  must  be  an  of- 
fensive mannerism ;  for,  if  repeating  himself  makes  an 
artist  a  mannerist,  he  is  still  more  likely  to  become  one 
if  he  repeat  another.  There  is  but  one  model  that 
will  not  lead  him  astray,  —  which  is  Nature  :  we  do  not 
mean  what  is  merely  obvious  to  the  senses,  but  what- 
ever is  so  acknowledged  by  the  mind.  So  far,  then,  as 
the  ancient  statues  are  found  to  represent  her,  —  and  the 
student's  own  feeling  must  be  the  judge  of  that,  —  they 
are  undoubtedly  both  true  and  important  objects  of 
study,  as  presenting  not  only  a  wider,  but  a  higher 
view  of  Nature,  than  might  else  be  commanded,  were 
they  buried  with  their  authors  ;  since,  with  the  finest 
forms  of  the  fairest  portion  of  the  earth,  we  have  also  in 
them  the  realized  Ideas  of  some  of  the  greatest  minds. 
12* 


138 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


In  like  manner  may  we  extend  our  sphere  of  knowl- 
edge by  the  study  of  all  those  productions  of  later  ages 
which  have  stood  this  test.  There  is  no  school  from 
which  something  may  not  be  learned.  But  chiefly  to 
the  Italian  should  the  student  be  directed,  who  would 
enlarge  his  views  on  the  present  subject,  and  especial- 
ly to  the  works  of  RafFaelle  and  Michael  Angelo  ;  in 
whose  highest  efforts  we  have,  so  to  speak,  certain  rev- 
elations of  Nature  which  could  only  have  been  made 
by  her  privileged  seers.  And  we  refer  to  them  more 
particularly,  as  to  the  two  great  sovereigns  of  the  two 
distinct  empires  of  Truth, — -the  Actual  and  the  Imagi- 
native ;  in  which  their  claims  are  acknowledged  by 
that  within  us,  of  which  we  know  nothing  but  that  it 
must  respond  to  all  things  true.  We  refer  to  them,  also, 
as  important  examples  in  their  mode  of  study;  in 
which  it  is  evident  that,  whatever  the  source  of  instruc- 
tion, it  was  never  considered  as  a  law  of  servitude,  but 
rather  as  the  means  of  giving  visible  shape  to  their 
own  conceptions. 

From  the  celebrated  antique  fragment,  called  the 
Torso,  Michael  Angelo  is  said  to  have  constructed  his 
forms.  If  this  be  true,  —  and  we  have  no  reason  to 
doubt  it,  — it  could  nevertheless  have  been  to  him  little 
more  than  a  hint.  But  that  is  enough  to  a  man  of 
genius,  who  stands  in  need,  no  less  than  others,  of  a 
point  to  start  from.  There  was  something  in  this  frag- 
ment which  he  seems  to  have  felt,  as  if  of  a  kindred  na- 
ture to  the  unembodied  creatures  in  his  own  mind ;  and 
he  pondered  over  it  until  he  mastered  the  spell  of  its 
author.  He  then  turned  to  his  own,  to  the  germs  of  life 
that  still  awaited  birth,  to  knit  their  joints,  to  attach  the 
tendons,  to  mould  the  muscles,  —  finally,  to  sway  the 
limbs  by  a  mighty  will.    Then  emerged  into  being  that 


FORM. 


139 


gigantic  race  of  the  Sistina,  —  giants  in  mind  no  less 
than  in  body,  that  appear  to  have  descended  as  from 
another  planet.  His  Prophets  and  Sibyls  seem  to  car- 
ry in  their  persons  the  commanding  evidence  of  their 
mission.  They  neither  look  nor  move  like  beings  to  be 
affected  by  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life  ;  but  as  if  they 
could  only  be  moved  by  the  vast  of  human  events,  the 
fall  of  empires,  the  extinction  of  nations  ;  as  if  the 
awful  secrets  of  the  future  had  overwhelmed  in  them 
all  present  sympathies.  As  we  have  stood  before  these 
lofty  apparitions  of  the  painter's  mind,  it  has  seemed  to 
us  impossible  that  the  most  vulgar  spectator  could  have 
remained  there  irreverent. 

With  many  critics  it  seems  to  have  been  doubted 
whether  much  that  we  now  admire  in  RafFaelle  would 
ever  have  been  but  for  his  great  contemporary.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  it  is  a  fact  of  history,  that,  after  seeing  the 
works  of  Michael  Angelo,  both  his  form  and  his  style 
assumed  a  breadth  and  grandeur  which  they  possessed 
not  before.  And  yet  these  great  artists  had  little,  if  any 
thing,  in  common  ;  a  sufficient  proof  that  an  original 
mind  may  owe,  and  even  freely  acknowledge,  its  im- 
petus to  another  without  any  self-sacrifice. 

As  Michael  Angelo  adopted  from  others  only  what 
accorded  with  his  own  peculiar  genius,  so  did  Raf- 
faelle ;  and,  wherever  collected,  the  materials  of  both 
could  not  but  enter  their  respective  minds  as  their  nat- 
ural aliment. 

The  genius  of  Michael  Angelo  was  essentially  Imagi- 
native, It  seems  rarely  to  have  been  excited  by  the  ob- 
jects with  which  w^e  are  daily  familiar ;  and  when  he  did 
treat  them,  it  was  rather  as  things  past,  as  they  appear 
to  us  through  the  atmosphere  of  the  hallowing  mem- 
ory.   "We  have  a  striking  instance  of  this  in  his  statue 


140 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici ;  where,  retaining  of  the  original 
only  enough  to  mark  the  individual,  and  investing  the 
rest  with  an  air  of  grandeur  that  should  accord  with 
his  actions,  he  has  left  to  his  country,  not  a  mere  ef- 
figy of  the  person,  but  an  embodiment  of  the  mind  ; 
a  portrait  for  posterity,  in  which  the  unborn  might  rec- 
ognize Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 

But  the  mind  of  Raffaelle  was  an  ever-flowing  foun- 
tain of  human  sympathies  ;  and  in  all  that  concerns 
man,  in  his  vast  varieties  and  complicated  relations, 
from  the  highest  forms  of  majesty  to  the  humblest  con- 
dition of  humanity,  even  to  the  maimed  and  mis- 
shapen, he  may  well  be  called  a  master.  His  Apostles, 
his  philosophers,  and  most  ordinary  subordinates,  are  all 
to  us  as  living  beings  ;  nor  do  we  feel  any  doubt  that 
they  all  had  mothers,  and  brothers,  and  kindred.  In  the 
assemblage  of  the  Apostles  (already  referred  to)  at  the 
Death  of  Ananias,  we  look  upon  men  whom  the  effu- 
sion of  the  Spirit  has  equally  sublimated  above  every 
unholy  thought ;  a  common  power  seems  to  have  in- 
vested them  all  with  a  preternatural  majesty.  Yet  not 
an  iota  of  the  individual  is  lost  in  any  one ;  the  gentle 
bearing  and  amenity  of  John  still  follow  him  in  his  office 
of  almoner ;  nor  in  Peter  does  th  e  deep  repose  of  the  erect 
attitude  of  the  Apostle,  as  he  deals  the  death-stroke  to 
the  offender  by  a  simple  bend  of  his  finger,  subdue  the 
energetic,  sanguine  temperament  of  the  Disciple. 

If  any  man  may  be  said  to  have  reigned  over  the 
hearts  of  his  fellows,  it  was  Raffaelle  Sanzio.  Not 
that  he  knew  better  what  was  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  men  than  many  others,  but  that  he  better  under- 
stood their  relations  to  the  external.  In  this  the  great- 
est names  in  Art  fall  before  him;  in  this  he  has  no  rival; 
and,  however  derived,  or  in  whatever  degree  improved  by 


FORM. 


141 


study,  in  him  it  seems  to  have  risen  to  intuition.  We 
know  not  how  he  touches  and  enthralls  us  ;  as  if  he 
had  wrought  with  the  simplicity  of  Nature,  we  see  no 
effort ;  and  we  yield  as  to  a  living  influence,  sure,  yet 
inscrutable. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  these  two  celebrat- 
ed Artists  were  at  all  times  successful.  Like  other 
men,  they  had  their  moments  of  weakness,  when  they 
fell  into  manner,  and  gave  us  diagrams,  instead  of 
life.  Perhaps  no  one,  however,  had  fewer  lapses  of  this 
nature  than  RafTaelle ;  and  yet  they  are  to  be  found  in 
some  of  his  best  works.  We  shall  notice  now  only 
one  instance,  —  the  figure  of  St.  Catherine  in  the  ad- 
mirable picture  of  the  Madonna  di  Sisto  ;  in  which  we 
see  an  evident  rescript  from  the  Antique,  with  all  the 
received  lines  of  beauty,  as  laid  down  by  the  analyst, 
—  apparently  faultless,  yet  without  a  single  inflection 
which  the  mind  can  recognize  as  allied  to  our  sympa- 
thies ;  and  we  turn  from  it  coldly,  as  from  the  work  of 
an  artificer,  not  of  an  Artist.  But  not  so  can  we  turn 
from  the  intense  life,  that  seems  almost  to  breathe  upon 
us  from  the  celestial  group  of  the  Virgin  and  her  Child, 
and  from  the  Angels  below :  in  these  we  have  the  evi- 
dence of  the  divine  afflatus,  —  of  inspired  Art. 

In  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo  it  were  easy  to 
point  out  numerous  examples  of  a  similar  failure, 
though  from  a  different  cause;  not  from  mechanically 
following  the  Antique,  but  rather  from  erecting  into  a 
model  the  exaggerated  shadotv  of  his  own  practice ;  from 
repeating  lines  and  masses  that  might  have  impressed 
us  with  grandeur  but  for  the  utter  absence  of  the  inform- 
ing soul.  And  that  such  is  the  character  —  or  rather 
want  of  character  —  of  many  of  the  figures  in  his 
Last  Judgment  cannot  be  gainsaid  by  his  warmest  ad- 


142 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


mirers, —  among  whom  there  is  no  one  more  sincere 
than  the  present  writer.  But  the  failures  of  great  men 
are  our  most  profitable  lessons,  —  provided  only,  that 
we  have  hearts  and  heads  to  respond  to  their  success. 

In  conclusion.  We  have  now  arrived  at  what  ap- 
pears to  us  the  turning-point,  that,  by  a  natural  reflux, 
must  carry  us  back  to  our  original  Position ;  in  other 
words,  it  seems  to  us  clear,  that  the  result  of  the  argu- 
ment is  that  which  was  anticipated  in  our  main  Propo- 
sition ;  namely,  that  no  given  number  of  Standard 
Forms  can  with  certainty  apply  to  the  Human  Being ; 
that  all  Rules  therefore,  thence  derived,  can  only  be  con- 
sidered as  Expedient  Fictions ,  and  consequently  subject 
to  be  overruled  by  the  Artist,  —  in  whose  mind  alone 
is  the  ultimate  Rule  ;  and,  finally,  that  without  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  Nature,  in  all  its  varieties  of 
the  moral,  intellectual,  and  physical,  the  highest  pow- 
ers are  wanting  in  their  necessary  condition  of  action, 
and  are  therefore  incapable  of  supplying  the  Rule. 


COMPOSITION. 


The  term  Composition,  in  its  general  sense,  signifies 
the  union  of  things  that  were  originally  separate :  in 
the  art  of  Painting  it  implies,  in  addition  to  this,  such 
an  arrangement  and  reciprocal  relation  of  these  mate- 
rials, as  shall  constitute  them  so  many  essential  parts  of 
a  whole. 

In  a  true  Composition  of  Art  will  be  found  the  fol- 
lowing characteristics  :  —  First,  Unity  of  Purpose,  as 
expressing  the  general  sentiment  or  intention  of  the 
Artist.  Secondly,  Variety  of  Parts,  as  expressed  in  the 
diversity  of  shape,  quantity,  and  line.  Thirdly,  Con- 
tinuity, as  expressed  by  the  connection  of  parts  with 
each  other,  and  their  relation  to  the  whole.  Fourthly, 
Harmony  of  Parts. 

As  these  characteristics,  like  every  thing  which  the 
mind  can  recognize  as  true,  all  have  their  origin  in  its 
natural  desires,  they  may  also  be  termed  Principles; 
and  as  such  we  shall  consider  them.  In  order,  however, 
to  satisfy  ourselves  that  they  are  truly  such,  and  not 
arbitrary  assumptions,  or  the  traditional  dogmas  of  Prac- 
tice, it  may  be  well  to  inquire  whence  is  their  authori- 
ty; for,  though  the  ultimate  cause  of  pleasure  and  pain 
may  ever  remain  to  us  a  mystery,  yet  it  is  not  so 


144 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


with  their  intermediate  causes,  or  the  steps  that  lead 
to  them. 

With  respect  to  Unity  of  Purpose,  it  is  sufficient  to 
observe,  that,  where  the  attention  is  at  the  same  time 
claimed  by  two  objects,  having  each  a  different  end, 
they  must  of  necessity  break  in  upon  that  free  state  re- 
quired of  the  mind  in  order  to  receive  a  full  impression 
from  either.  It  is  needless  to  add,  that  such  conflict- 
ing claims  cannot,  under  any  circumstances,  be  ren- 
dered agreeable.  And  yet  this  most  obvious  require- 
ment of  the  mind  has  sometimes  been  violated  by  great 
Artists,  —  though  not  of  authority  in  this  particular,  as 
we  shall  endeavour  to  show  in  another  place. 

We  proceed,  meanwhile,  to  the  second  principle, 
namely,  Variety;  by  which  is  to  be  understood  differ- 
ence,  yet  with  relation  to  a  common  end. 

Of  a  ruling  Principle,  or  Law,  we  can  only  get  a  no- 
tion by  observing  the  effects  of  certain  things  in  rela- 
tion to  the  mind ;  the  uniformity  of  which  leads  us  to 
infer  something  which  is  unchangeable  and  permanent. 
It  is  in  this  way  that,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  we 
learn  the  existence  of  certain  laws  that  invariably  con- 
trol us.  Thus,  indirectly,  from  our  disgust  at  monoto- 
ny, we  infer  the  necessity  of  variety.  But  variety,  when 
carried  to  excess,  results  in  weariness.  Some  limitation, 
therefore,  seems  no  less  needed.  It  is,  however,  obvi- 
ous, that  all  attempts  to  fix  the  limit  to  Variety,  that 
shall  apply  as  a  universal  rule,  must  be  nugatory,  inas- 
much as  the  degree  must  depend  on  the  kind,  and  the 
kind  on  the  subject  treated.  For  instance,  if  the  subject 
be  of  a  gay  and  light  character,  and  the  emotions  in- 
tended to  be  excited  of  a  similar  nature,  the  variety 
may  be  carried  to  a  far  greater  extent  than  in  one  of  a 
graver  character.    In  the  celebrated  Marriage  at  Cana, 


COMPOSITION. 


145 


by  Paul  Veronese,  we  see  it  carried,  perhaps,  to  its 
utmost  limits;  and  to  such  an  extent,  that  an  hour's 
travel  will  hardly  conduct  us  through  all  its  parts ;  yet 
we  feel  no  weariness  throughout  this  journey,  nay,  we 
are  quite  unconscious  of  the  time  it  has  taken.  It  is 
no  disparagement  of  this  remarkable  picture,  if  we  con- 
sider the  subject,  not  according  to  the  title  it  bears,  but 
as  what  the  Artist  has  actually  made  it,  —  that  is,  as  a 
Venetian  entertainment;  and  also  the  effect  intended, 
which  was  to  delight  by  the  exhibition  of  a  gorgeous 
pageant.  And  in  this  he  has  succeeded  to  a  degree 
unexampled ;  for  literally  the  eye  may  be  said  to  dance 
through  the  picture,  scarcely  lighting  on  one  part  before 
it  is  drawn  to  another,  and  another,  and  another,  as  by 
a  kind  of  witchery;  while  the  subtile  interlocking  of 
each  successive  novelty  leaves  it  no  choice,  but,  se- 
ducing it  onward,  still  keeps  it  in  motion,  till  the  giddy 
sense  seems  to  call  on  the  Imagination  to  join  in  the 
revel;  and  every  poetic  temperament  answers  to  the 
call,  bringing  visions  of  its  own,  that  mingle  with  the 
painted  crowd,  exchanging  forms,  and  giving  them 
voice,  like  the  creatures  of  a  dream. 

To  those  who  have  never  seen  this  picture,  our  ac- 
count of  its  effect  may  perhaps  appear  incredible  when 
they  are  told,  that  it  not  only  has  no  story,  but  not  a 
single  expression  to  which  you  can  attach  a  sentiment. 
It  is  nevertheless  for  this  very  reason  that  we  here 
cite  it,  as  a  triumphant  verification  of  those  immutable 
laws  of  the  mind  to  which  the  principles  of  Com- 
position are  supposed  to  appeal;  where  the  simple 
technic  exhibition,  or  illustration  of  Principles,  without 
story,  or  thought,  or  a  single  definite  expression,  has  still 
the  power  to  possess  and  to  fill  us  with  a  thousand  de- 
lightful emotions. 

13 


146 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


And  here  we  cannot  refrain  from  a  passing  remark 
on  certain  criticisms,  which  have  obtained,  as  we  think, 
an  undeserved  currency.  To  assert  that  such  a  work  is 
solely  addressed  to  the  senses  (meaning  thereby  that  its 
only  end  is  in  mere  pleasurable  sensation)  is  to  give  the 
lie  to  our  convictions ;  inasmuch  as  we  find  it  appeal- 
ing to  one  of  the  mightiest  ministers  of  the  Imagination, 
—  the  great  Law  of  Harmony,  —  which  cannot  be 
touched  without  awakening  by  its  vibrations,  so  to 
speak,  the  untold  myriads  of  sleeping  forms  that  lie 
within  its  circle,  that  start  up  in  tribes,  and  each  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  congenial  instrument  that  summons 
them  to  action.  He  who  can  thus,  as  it  were,  embody 
an  abstraction  is  no  mere  pander  to  the  senses.  And 
who  that  has  a  modicum  of  the  imaginative  would  as- 
sert of  one  of  Haydn's  Sonatas,  that  its  effect  on  him 
was  no  other  than  sensuous  ?  Or  who  would  ask  for 
the  story  in  one  of  our  gorgeous  autumnal  sunsets  ? 

In  subjects  of  a  grave  or  elevated  kind,  the  Variety 
will  be  found  to  diminish  in  the  same  degree  in  which 
they  approach  the  Sublime.  In  the  raising  of  Lazarus, 
by  Lievens,  we  have  an  example  of  the  smallest  pos- 
sible number  of  parts  which  the  nature  of  such  a  sub- 
ject would  admit.  And,  though  a  different  conception 
might  authorize  a  much  greater  number,  yet  we  do  not 
feel  in  this  any  deficiency  ;  indeed,  it  may  be  doubted 
if  the  addition  of  even  one  more  part  would  not  be  felt 
as  obtrusive. 

By  the  term  parts  we  are  not  to  be  understood  as  in- 
cluding the  minutiae  of  dress  or  ornament,  or  even  the 
several  members  of  a  group,  which  come  more  properly 
under  the  head  of  detail ;  we  apply  the  term  only  to 
those  prominent  divisions  which  constitute  the  essen- 
tial features  of  a  composition.    Of  these  the  Sublime 


COMPOSITION. 


147 


admits  the  fewest.  Nor  is  the  limitation  arbitrary.  By 
whatever  causes  the  stronger  passions  or  higher  facul- 
ties of  the  mind  become  pleasurably  excited,  if  they  be 
pushed  as  it  were  beyond  their  supposed  limits,  till  a 
sense  of  the  indefinite  seems  almost  to  partake  of  the 
infinite,  to  these  causes  we  affix  the  epithet  Sublime, 
It  is  needless  to  inquire  if  such  an  effect  can  be  pro- 
duced by  any  thing  short  of  the  vast  and  overpowering, 
much  less  by  the  gradual  approach  or  successive  accu- 
mulation of  any  number  of  separate  forces.  Every 
one  can  answer  from  his  own  experience.  We  may 
also  add,  that  the  pleasure  which  belongs  to  the  deeper 
emotions  always  trenches  on  pain ;  and  the  sense  of  pain 
leads  to  reaction ;  so  that,  singly  roused,  they  will  rise 
but  to  fall,  like  men  at  a  breach,  —  leaving  a  conquest, 
not  over  the  living,  but  the  dead.  The  effect  of  the 
Sublime  must  therefore  be  sudden,  and  to  be  sudden, 
simple,  scarce  seen  till  felt ;  coming  like  a  blast,  bend- 
ing and  levelling  every  thing  before  it,  till  it  passes  into 
space.  So  comes  this  marvellous  emotion ;  and  so  van- 
ishes, —  to  where  no  straining  of  our  mortal  faculties 
will  ever  carry  them. 

To  prevent  misapprehension,  we  may  here  observe, 
that,  though  the  parts  be  few,  it  does  not  necessarily 
follow  that  they  should  always  consist  of  simple 
or  single  objects.  This  narrow  inference  has  often 
led  to  the  error  of  mistaking  mere  space  for  gran- 
deur, especially  with  those  who  have  wrought  rather 
from  theory  than  from  the  true  possession  of  their  sub- 
jects. Hence,  by  the  mechanical  arrangement  of  cer- 
tain large  and  sweeping  masses  of  light  and  shadow, 
we  are  sometimes  surprised  into  a  momentary  expecta- 
tion of  a  sublime  impression,  when  a  nearer  approach 
gives  us  only  the  notion  of  a  vast  blank.    And  the 


148 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


error  lies  in  the  misconception  of  a  mass.  For  a  mass 
is  not  a  thing,  but  the  condition  of  things ;  into  which, 
should  the  subject  require  it,  a  legion,  a  host,  may  be 
compressed,  an  army  with  banners,  —  yet  so  that  they 
break  not  the  unity  of  their  Part,  that  technic  form  to 
which  they  are  subordinate. 

The  difference  between  a  Part  and  a  Mass  is,  that  a 
Mass  may  include,  per  $e,  many  Parts,  yet,  in  relation 
to  a  Whole,  is  no  more  than  a  single  component.  Per- 
haps the  same  distinction  may  be  more  simply  express- 
ed, if  we  define  it  as  only  a  larger  division,  including 
several  parts,  which  may  be  said  to  be .  analogous  to 
what  is  termed  the  detail  of  a  Part  Look  at  the 
ocean  in  a  storm,  —  at  that  single  wave.  How  it 
grows  before  us,  building  up  its  waters  as  with  con- 
scious life,  till  its  huge  head  overlooks  the  mast!  A 
million  of  lines  intersect  its  surface,  a  myriad  of  bub- 
bles fleck  it  with  light;  yet  its  terrible  unity  remains 
unbroken.  Not  a  bubble  or  a  line  gives  a  thought  of 
minuteness ;  they  flash  and  flit,  ere  the  eye  can  count 
them,  leaving  only  their  aggregate,  in  the  indefinite 
sense  of  multitudinous  motion  :  take  them  away,  and 
you  take  from  the  mass  the  very  sign  of  its  power,  that 
fearful  impetus  which  makes  it  what  it  is,  —  a  moving 
mountain  of  water. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured,  in  the  opposite  characters 
of  the  Sublime  and  the  Gay  or  Magnificent,  to  exhibit 
the  two  extremes  of  Variety ;  of  the  intermediate  de- 
grees it  is  unnecessary  to  speak,  since  in  these  two  is 
included  all  that  is  applicable  to  the  rest. 

Though  it  is  of  vital  importance  to  every  composi- 
tion that  there  be  variety  of  Lines,  little  can  be  said  on 
the  subject  in  addition  to  what  has  been  advanced  in 
relation  to  parts,  that  is,  to  shape  and  quantity ;  both 


COMPOSITION. 


149 


having  a  common  origin.  By  a  line  in  Composition  is 
meant  something  very  different  from  the  geometrical 
definition.  Originally,  it  was  no  doubt  used  as  a  met- 
aphor; but  the  needs  of  Art  have  long  since  converted 
this ,  and  many  other  words  of  like  application,  (as  tone, 
&c.,)  into  technical  terms.  Line  thus  signifies  the 
course  or  medium  through  which  the  eye  is  led  from 
one  part  of  the  picture  to  another.  The  indication  of 
this  course  is  various  and  multiform,  appertaining  equal- 
ly to  shape,  to  color,  and  to  light  and  dark ;  in  a  word, 
to  whatever  attracts  and  keeps  the  eye  in  motion.  For 
the  regulation  of  these  lines  there  is  no  rule  absolute, 
except  that  they  vary  and  unite  ;  nor  is  the  last  strictly 
necessary,  it  being  sufficient  if  they  so  terminate  that 
the  transition  from  one  to  another  is  made  naturally, 
and  without  effort,  by  the  imagination.  Nor  can  any 
laws  be  laid  down  as  to  their  peculiar  character :  this 
must  depend  on  the  nature  of  the  subject. 

In  the  wild  and  stormy  scenes  of  Salvator  Rosa, 
they  break  upon  us  as  with  the  angular  flash  of  light- 
ning ;  the  eye  is  dashed  up  one  precipice  only  to  be 
dashed  down  another;  then,  suddenly  hurried  to  the 
sky,  it  shoots  up,  almost  in  a  direct  line,  to  some  sharp- 
edged  rock ;  whence  pitched,  as  it  were,  into  a  sea  of 
clouds,  bellying  with  circles,  it  partakes  their  motion, 
and  seems  to  reel,  to  roll,  and  to  plunge  with  them  into 
the  depths  of  air. 

If  we  pass  from  Salvator  to  Claude,  we  shall  find  a 
system  of  lines  totally  different.  Our  first  impression 
from  Claude  is  that  of  perfect  unity,  and  this  we  have 
even  before  we  are  conscious  of  a  single  image  ;  as  if, 
circumscribing  his  scenes  by  a  magic  circle,  he  had  im- 
posed his  own  mood  on  all  who  entered  it.  The  spell 
then  opens  ere  it  seems  to  have  begun,  acting  upon  us 
13  * 


150 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


with  a  vague  sense  of  limitless  expanse,  yet  so  contin- 
uous, so  gentle,  so  imperceptible  in  its  remotest  grada- 
tions, as  scarcely  to  be  felt,  till,  combining  with  unity, 
we  find  the  feeling  embodied  in  the  complete  image  of 
intellectual  repose,  —  fulness  and  rest.  The  mind  thus 
disposed,  the  charmed  eye  glides  into  the  scene  :  a  soft, 
undulating  light  leads  it  on,  from  bank  to  bank,  from 
shrub  to  shrub  ;  now  leaping  and  sparkling  over  pebbly 
brooks  and  sunny  sands  ;  now  fainter  and  fainter,  dying 
away  down  shady  slopes,  then  seemingly  quenched  in 
some  secluded  dell ;  yet  only  for  a  moment,  —  for  a 
dimmer  ray  again  carries  it  onward,  gently  winding 
among  the  boles  of  trees  and  rambling  vines,  that, 
skirting  the  ascent,  seem  to  hem  in  the  twilight ;  then 
emerging  into  day,  it  flashes  in  sheets  over  towers  and 
towns,  and  woods  and  streams,  when  it  finally  dips  into 
an  ocean,  so  far  off',  so  twin-like  with  the  sky,  that  the 
doubtful  horizon,  unmarked  by  a  line,  leaves  no  point 
of  rest :  and  now,  as  in  a  flickering  arch,  the  fascinated 
eye  seems  to  sail  upward  like  a  bird,  wheeling  its  flight 
through  a  mottled  labyrinth  of  clouds,  on  to  the  zenith ; 
whence,  gently  inflected  by  some  shadowy  mass,  it 
slants  again  downward  to  a  mass  still  deeper,  and  still 
to  another,  and  another,  until  it  falls  into  the  darkness 
of  some  massive  tree,  —  focused  like  midnight  in  the 
brightest  noon  :  there  stops  the  eye,  instinctively  clos- 
ing, and  giving  place  to  the  Soul,  there  to  repose  and 
to  dream  her  dreams  of  romance  and  love. 

From  these  two  examples  of  their  general  effect, 
some  notion  may  be  gathered  of  the  different  systems 
of  the  two  Artists ;  and  though  no  mention  has  been 
made  of  the  particular  lines  employed,  their  distinctive 
character  may  readily  be  inferred  from  the  kind  of  mo- 
tion given  to  the  eye  in  the  descriptions  we  have  at- 


COMPOSITION. 


151 


tempted.  In  the  rapid,  abrupt,  contrasted,  whirling 
movement  in  the  one,  we  have  an  exposition  of  an 
irregular  combination  of  curves  and  angles ;  while  the 
simple  combination  of  the  parabola  and  the  serpentine 
will  account  for  all  the  imperceptible  transitions  in  the 
other. 

It  would  be  easy  to  accumulate  examples  from  other 
Artists  who  differ  in  the  economy  of  line  not  only  from 
these  but  from  each  other ;  as  RafFaelle,  Michael  Ange- 
lo,  Correggio,  Titian,  Poussin,  —  in  a  word,  every  paint- 
er deserving  the  name  of  master :  for  lines  here  may  be 
called  the  tracks  of  thought,  in  which  we  follow  the 
author's  mind  through  his  imaginary  creations.  They 
hold,  indeed,  the  same  relation  to  Painting  that  versifica- 
tion does  to  Poetry,  an  element  of  style ;  for  what  is 
meant  by  a  line  in  Painting  is  analogous  to  that  which 
in  the  sister  art  distinguishes  the  abrupt  gait  of  Crabbe 
from  the  sauntering  walk  of  Cowley,  and  the  "  long, 
majestic  march  "  of  Dryden  from  the  surging  sweep  of 
Milton. 

Of  Continuity  little  needs  be  said,  since  its  uses  are 
implied  in  the  explanation  of  Line ;  indeed,  all  that  can 
be  added  will  be  expressed  in  its  essential  relation  to  a 
whole,  in  which  alone  it  differs  from  a  mere  line.  For, 
though  a  line  (as  just  explained)  supposes  a  continu- 
ous course,  yet  a  line,  per  se,  does  not  necessarily  imply 
any  relation  to  other  lines.  It  will  still  be  a  line,  though 
standing  alone  ;  but  the  principle  of  continuity  may  be 
called  the  unifying  spirit  of  every  line.  It  is  therefore 
that  we  have  distinguished  it  as  a  separate  principle. 

In  fact,  if  we  judge  from  feeling,  the  only  true  test, 
it  is  no  paradox  to  say  that  the  excess  of  variety  must 
inevitably  end  in  monotony  ;  for,  as  soon  as  the  sense 
of  fatigue  begins,  every  new  variety  but  adds  to  the 


152 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


pain,  till  the  succeeding  impressions  are  at  last  resolved 
into  continuous  pain.  But,  supposing  a  limit  to  vari- 
ety, where  the  mind  may  be  pleasurably  excited,  the 
very  sense  of  pleasure,  when  it  reaches  the  extreme 
point,  will  create  the  desire  of  renewing  it,  and  natural- 
ly carry  it  back  to  the  point  of  starting ;  thus  superin- 
ducing, with  the  renewed  enjoyment,  the  fulness  of 
pleasure,  in  the  sense  of  a  whole. 

It  is  by  this  summing  up,  as  it  were,  of  the  memory, 
through  recurrence,  not  that  we  perceive,  —  which  is  in- 
stantaneous,—  but  that  we  enjoy  any  thing  as  a  whole. 
If  we  have  not  observed  it  in  others,  some  of  us,  per- 
haps, may  remember  it  in  ourselves,  when  we  have  stood 
before  some  fine  picture,  though  with  a  sense  of  pleas- 
ure, yet  for  many  minutes  in  a  manner  abstracted, — 
silently  passing  through  all  its  harmonious  transitions 
without  the  movement  of  a  muscle,  and  hardly  con- 
scious of  action,  till  we  have  suddenly  found  ourselves 
returning  on  our  steps.  Then  it  was,  —  as  if  we  had  no 
eyes  till  then,  —  that  the  magic  Whole  poured  in  upon 
us,  and  vouched  for  its  truth  in  an  outbreak  of  rapture. 

The  fourth  and  last  division  of  our  subject  is  the  Har- 
mony of  Parts ;  or  the  essential  agreement  of  one  part 
with  another,  and  of  each  with  the  whole.  In  addition 
to  our  first  general  definition,  we  may  further  observe, 
that  by  a  Whole  in  Painting  is  signified  the  complete 
expression,  by  means  of  form,  color,  light,  and  shadow, 
of  one  thought,  or  series  of  thoughts,  having  for  their 
end  some  particular  truth,  or  sentiment,  or  action,  or 
mood  of  mind.  We  say  thought,  because  no  images, 
however  put  together,  can  ever  be  separated  by  the 
mind  from  other  and  extraneous  images,  so  as  to  com- 
prise a  positive  whole,  unless  they  be  limited  by  some 
intellectual  boundary.    A  picture  wanting  this  may 


COMPOSITION. 


153 


have  fine  parts,  but  is  not  a  Composition,  which  implies 
parts  united  to  each  other,  and  also  suited  to  some 
specific  purpose,  otherwise  they  cannot  be  known  as 
united.  Since  Harmony,  therefore,  cannot  be  conceived 
of  without  reference  to  a  whole,  so  neither  can  a  whole 
be  imagined  without  fitness  of  parts.  To  give  this  fit- 
ness, then,  is  the  ultimate  task  and  test  of  genius  :  it  is,  in 
fact,  calling  form  and  life  out  of  what  before  was  but 
a  chaos  of  materials,  and  making  them  the  subject  and 
exponents  of  the  will.  As  the  master-principle,  also,  it 
is  the  disposer,  regulator,  and  modifier  of  shape,  line, 
and  quantity,  adding,  diminishing,  changing,  shaping, 
till  it  becomes  clear  and  intelligible,  and  it  finally  mani- 
fests itself  in  pleasurable  identity  with  the  harmony 
within  us. 

To  reduce  the  operation  of  this  principle  to  precise 
rules  is,  perhaps,  without  the  province  of  human  power : 
we  might  else  expect  to  see  poets  and  painters  made 
by  recipe.  As  in  many  other  operations  of  the  mind, 
we  must  here  be  content  to  note  a  few  of  the  more 
tangible  facts,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  phrase,  which 
have  occasionally  been  gathered  by  observation  during 
the  process.  The  first  fact  presented  is,  that  equal 
quantities,  when  coming  together,  produce  monotony, 
and,  if  at  all  admissible,  are  only  so  when  absolutely 
needed,  at  a  proper  distance,  to  echo  back  or  recall  the 
theme,  which  would  otherwise  be  lost  in  the  excess  of 
variety.  We  speak  of  quantity  here  as  of  a  mass,  not 
of  the  minutiae  ;  for  the  essential  components  of  a  part 
may  often  be  equal  quantities,  (as  in  a  piece  of  architec- 
ture, of  armour,  &c.,)  which  are  analogous  to  poetic 
feet,  for  instance,  a  spondee.  The  same  effect  we  find 
from  parallel  lines  and  repetition  of  shapes.  Hence  we 
obtain  the  law  of  a  limited  variety.    The  next  is,  that 


154 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


the  quantities  must  be  so  disposed  as  to  balance  each 
other ;  otherwise,  if  all  or  too  many  of  the  larger  be  on 
one  side,  they  will  endanger  the  imaginary  circle,  or  other 
figure,  by  which  every  composition  is  supposed  to  be 
bounded,  making  it  appear  "  lop-sided,"  or  to  be  falling 
either  in  upon  the  smaller  quantities,  or  out  of  the  pic- 
ture :  from  which  we  infer  the  necessity  of  balance.  If, 
without  others  to  counteract  and  restrain  them,  the  parts 
converge,  the  eye,  being  forced  to  the  centre,  becomes 
stationary ;  in  like  manner,  if  all  diverge,  it  is  forced 
to  fly  off  in  tangents  :  as  if  the  great  laws  of  Attrac- 
tion and  Repulsion  were  here  also  essential,  and  illus- 
trated in  miniature.  If  we  add  to  these  Breadth,  I  be- 
lieve we  shall  have  enumerated  all  the  leading  phenom- 
ena of  Harmony,  which  experience  has  enabled  us  to 
establish  as  rules.  By  breadth  is  meant  such  a  mass- 
ing of  the  quantities,  whether  by  color,  light,  or  shadow, 
as  shall  enable  the  eye  to  pass  without  obstruction,  and 
by  easy  transitions,  from  one  to  another,  so  that  it  shall 
appear  to  take  in  the  whole  at  a  glance.  This  may  be 
likened  to  both  the  exordium  and  peroration  of  a  dis- 
course, including  as  well  the  last  as  the  first  general 
idea.  It  is,  in  other  words,  a  simple,  connected,  and 
concise  exposition  and  summary  of  what  the  artist 
intends. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured  to  arrange  and  to  give  a 
logical  permanency  to  the  several  principles  of  Composi- 
tion. It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  in  these 
we  have  every  principle  that  might  be  named ;  but  they 
are  all,  as  we  conceive,  that  are  of  universal  application. 
Of  other  minor,  or  rather  personal  ones,  since  they 
pertain  to  the  individual,  the  number  can  only  be  lim- 
ited by  the  variety  of  the  human  intellect,  to  which 
these  may  be  considered  as  so  many  simple  elementary 


COMPOSITION. 


155 


guides  ;  not  to  create  genius,  but  to  enable  it  to  under- 
stand itself,  and  by  a  distinct  knowledge  of  its  own 
operations  to  correct  its  mistakes,  —  in  a  word,  to  estab- 
lish the  landmarks  between  the  flats  of  commonplace 
and  the  barrens  of  extravagance.  And,  though  the  per- 
sonal or  individual  principles  referred  to  may  not  with 
propriety  be  cited  as  examples  in  a  general  treatise  like 
the  present,  they  are  not  only  not  to  be  overlooked,  but 
are  to  be  regarded  by  the  student  as  legitimate  ob- 
jects of  study.  To  the  truism,  that  we  can  only  judge 
of  other  minds  by  a  knowledge  of  our  own,  we  may 
add  its  converse  as  especially  true.  In  that  mysterious 
tract  of  the  intellect,  w^hich  we  call  the  Imagination, 
there  would  seem  to  lie  hid  thousands  of  unknown 
forms,  of  which  we  are  often  for  years  unconscious,  un- 
til they  start  up  awakened  by  the  footsteps  of  a  stran- 
ger. Hence  it  is  that  the  greatest  geniuses,  as  present- 
ing a  wider  field  for  excitement,  are  generally  found 
to  be  the  widest  likers ;  not  so  much  from  affinity,  or 
because  they  possess  the  precise  kinds  of  excellence 
which  they  admire,  but  often  from  the  differences  which 
these  very  excellences  in  others,  as  the  exciting  cause, 
awaken  in  themselves.  Such  men  may  be  said  to  be 
endowed  with  a  double  vision,  an  inward  and  an  out- 
ward; the  inward  seeing  not  unfrequently  the  reverse 
of  what  is  seen  by  the  outward.  It  was  this  which 
caused  Annibal  Caracci  to  remark,  on  seeing  for  the 
first  time  a  picture  by  Caravaggio,  that  he  thought  a 
style  totally  opposite  might  be  made  very  captivating; 
and  the  hint,  it  is  said,  sunk  deep  into  and  was  not  lost 
on  Guido,  who  soon  after  realized  what  his  master  had 
thus  imagined.  Perhaps  no  one  ever  caught  more  from 
others  than  RafFaelle.  I  do  not  allude  to  his  "  borrow- 
ing/' so  ingeniously,  not  soundly,  defended  by  Sir 


156 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


Joshua,  but  rather  to  his  excitability,  (if  I  may  here  ap- 
ply a  modern  term,)  —  that  inflammable  temperament, 
which  took  fire,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  friction  of  the 
atmosphere.  For  there  was  scarce  an  excellence,  with- 
in his  knowledge,  of  his  predecessors  or  contemporaries, 
which  did  not  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  contribute  to 
the  developement  of  his  powers;  not  as  presenting 
models  of  imitation,  but  as  shedding  new  light  on  his 
own  mind,  and  opening  to  view  its  hidden  treasures. 
Such  to  him  were  the  forms  of  the  Antique,  of  Leonar- 
do da  Vinci,  and  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  breadth 
and  color  of  Fra  Bartolomeo,  —  lights  that  first  made 
him  acquainted  with  himself,  not  lights  that  he  follow- 
ed ;  for  he  was  a  follower  of  none.  To  how  many 
others  he  was  indebted  for  his  impulses  cannot  now 
be  known  ;  but  the  new  impetus  he  was  known  to 
have  received  from  every  new  excellence  has  led  many 
to  believe,  that,  had  he  lived  to  see  the  works  of  Titian, 
he  would  have  added  to  his  grace,  character,  and  form, 
and  with  equal  originality,  the  splendor  of  color.  "  The 
design  of  Michael  Angelo  and  the  color  of  Titian,"  was 
the  inscription  of  Tintoretto  over  the  door  of  his  painting- 
room.  Whether  he  intended  to  designate  these  two  art- 
ists as  his  future  models  matters  not ;  but  that  he  did  not 
follow  them  is  evidenced  in  his  works.  Nor,  indeed, 
could  he :  the  temptation  to  follow,  which  his  youthful 
admiration  had  excited,  was  met  by  an  interdiction  not 
easily  withstood,  —  the  decree  of  his  own  genius.  And 
yet  the  decree  had  probably  never  been  heard  but  for 
these  very  masters.  Their  presence  stirred  him;  and, 
when  he  thought  of  serving,  his  teeming  mind  poured 
out  its  abundance,  making  Mm  a  master  to  future  gen- 
erations. To  the  forms  of  Michael  Angelo  he  was  cer- 
tainly indebted  for  the  elevation  of  his  own;  there. 


COMPOSITION. 


157 


however,  the  inspiration  ended.  With  Titian  he  was 
nearly  allied  in  genius ;  yet  he  thought  rather  with 
than  after  him,  —  at  times  even  beyond  him.  Titian, 
indeed,  may  be  said  to  have  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
mysteries  of  nature ;  but  they  were  no  sooner  opened, 
than  he  rushed  into  them  with  a  rapidity  and  daring 
unwont  to  the  more  cautious  spirit  of  his  master ;  and, 
though  irregular,  eccentric,  and  often  inferior,  yet  some- 
times he  made  his  way  to  poetical  regions,  of  whose 
celestial  hues  even  Titian  himself  had  never  dreamt. 

We  might  go  on  thus  with  every  great  name  in  Art. 
But  these  examples  are  enough  to  show  how  much 
even  the  most  original  minds,  not  only  may,  but  must, 
owe  to  others  ;  for  the  social  law  of  our  nature  applies 
no  less  to  the  intellect  than  to  the  affections.  When  ap- 
plied to  genius,  it  may  be  called  the  social  inspiration, 
the  simple  statement  of  which  seems  to  us  of  itself  a 
solution  of  the  oft-repeated  question,  "  Why  is  it  that 
genius  always  appears  in  clusters  ?  "  To  Nature,  in- 
deed, we  must  all  at  last  recur,  as  to  the  only  true 
and  permanent  foundation  of  real  excellence.  But  Na- 
ture is  open  to  all  men  alike,  in  her  beauty,  her  majesty, 
her  grandeur,  and  her  sublimity.  Yet  who  will  assert 
that  all  men  see,  or,  if  they  see,  are  impressed  by  these 
her  attributes  alike  ?  Nay,  so  great  is  the  difference, 
that  one  might  almost  suppose  them  inhabitants  of 
different  worlds.  Of  Claude,  for  instance,  it  is  hardly 
a  metaphor  to  say  that  he  lived  in  two  worlds  during 
his  natural  life ;  for  Claude  the  pastry-cook  could  never 
have  seen  the  same  world  that  was  made  visible  to 
Claude  the  painter.  It  was  human  sympathy,  acting 
through  human  works,  that  gave  birth  to  his  intellect  at 
the  age  of  forty.  There  is  something,  perhaps,  ludi- 
crous in  the  thought  of  an  infant  of  forty.  Yet  the 
14 


158 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


fact  is  a  solemn  one,  that  thousands  die  whose  minds 
have  never  been  born. 

"We  could  not,  perhaps,  instance  a  stronger  confuta- 
tion of  the  vulgar  error  which  opposes  learning  to 
genius,  than  the  simple  history  of  this  remarkable 
man.  In  all  that  respects  the  mind,  he  was  literally  a 
child,  till  accident  or  necessity  carried  him  to  Rome ; 
for,  when  the  office  of  color-grinder,  added  to  that  of 
cook,  by  awakening  his  curiosity,  first  excited  a  love  for 
the  Art,  his  progress  through  its  rudiments  seems  to 
have  been  scarcely  less  slow  and  painful  than  that  of  a 
child  through  the  horrors  of  the  alphabet.  It  was  the 
struggle  of  one  who  was  learning  to  think;  but,  the 
rudiments  being  mastered,  he  found  himself  suddenly 
possessed,  not  as  yet  of  thought,  but  of  new  forms  of 
language ;  then  came  thoughts,  pouring  from  his  mind, 
and  filling  them  as  moulds,  without  which  they  had 
never,  perhaps,  had  either  shape  or  consciousness. 

Now  what  was  this  new  language  but  the  product  of 
other  minds,  —  of  successive  minds,  amending,  enlarg- 
ing, elaborating,  through  successive  ages,  till,  fitted  to  all 
its  wants,  it  became  true  to  the  Ideal,  and  the  vernac- 
ular tongue  of  genius  through  all  time  ?  The  first  in- 
ventor of  verse  was  but  the  prophetic  herald  of  Homer, 
Shakspeare,  and  Milton.  And  what  was  Rome  then 
but  the  great  University  of  Art,  where  all  this  accumu- 
lated learning  was  treasured  ? 

Much  has  been  said  of  self-taught  geniuses,  as  op- 
posed to  those  who  have  been  instructed  by  others :  but 
the  distinction,  it  appears  to  us,  is  without  a  difference ; 
for  it  matters  not  whether  we  learn  in  a  school  or  by 
ourselves,  —  we  cannot  learn  any  thing  without  in  some 
way  recurring  to  other  minds.  Let  us  imagine  a  poet 
who  had  never  read,  never  heard,  never  conversed  with 


COMPOSITION. 


159 


another.  Now  if  he  will  not  be  taught  in  any  thing  by 
another,  he  must  strictly  preserve  this  independent  ne- 
gation. Truly  the  verses  of  such  a  poet  would  be  a 
miracle.  Of  similar  self-taught  painters  we  have  abun- 
dant examples  in  our  aborigines,  —  but  nowhere  else. 

But,  while  we  maintain,  as  a  positive  law  of  our  na- 
ture, the  necessity  of  mental  intercourse  with  our  fel- 
low-creatures, in  order  to  the  full  developement  of  the 
individual,  we  are  far  from  implying  that  any  thing 
which  is  actually  taken  from  others  can  by  any  process 
become  our  own,  that  is,  original.  We  may  reverse, 
transpose,  diminish,  or  add  to  it,  and  so  skilfully  that 
no  seam  or  mutilation  shall  be  detected ;  and  yet  we 
shall  not  make  it  appear  original,  —  in  other  words,  true, 
the  offspring  of  one  mind.  A  borrowed  thought  will  al- 
ways be  borrowed ;  as  it  will  be  felt  as  such  in  its  effect, 
even  while  we  are  ourselves  unconscious  of  the  fact : 
for  it  will  want  that  effect  of  life,  which  only  the  first 
mind  can  give  it.* 


*  There  is  one  species  of  imitation,  however,  which,  as  having  been 
practised  by  some  of  the  most  original  minds,  and  also  sanctioned  by  the 
ablest  writers,  demands  at  least  a  little  consideration ;  namely,  the  adoption 
of  an  attitude,  provided  it  be  employed  to  convey  a  different  thought.  So 
far,  indeed,  as  the  imitation  has  been  confined  to  a  suggestion,  and  the  atti- 
tude adopted  has  been  modified  by  the  new  subject,  to  which  it  was  trans- 
ferred, by  a  distinct  change  of  character  and  expression,  though  with  but  lit- 
tle variation  in  the  disposition  of  limbs,  we  may  not  dissent ;  such  imita- 
tions being  virtually  little  more  than  hints,  since  they  end  in  thoughts  either 
totally  different  from,  or  more  complete  than,  the  first.  This  we  do  not  con- 
demn, for  every  Poet,  as  well  as  Artist,  knows  that  a  thought  so  modified  is 
of  right  his  own.  It  is  the  transplanting  of  a  tree,  not  the  borrowing  of  a 
seed,  against  which  we  contend.  But  when  writers  justify  the  appropriation 
of  entire  figures,  without  any  such  change,  we  do  not  agree  with  them ;  and 
cannot  but  think  that  the  examples  they  have  quoted,  as  in  the  Sacrifice  at 
Lystra,  by  Kaffaelle,  and  the  Baptism,  by  Poussin,  will  fully  support  our 
position.  The  antique  basso  rilievo  which  Raffaelle  has  introduced  in  the 
former,  being  certainly  imitated  both  as  to  lines  and  grouping,  is  so  dis- 
tinct, both  in  character  and  form,  from  the  surrounding  figures,  as  to  ren- 


160 


LECTURES  ON  ART. 


Of  the  multifarious  retailers  of  the  second-hand  in 
style,  the  class  is  so  numerous  as  to  make  a  selection 
difficult :  they  meet  us  at  every  step  in  the  history  of 
the  Art.  One  instance,  however,  may  suffice,  and  we 
select  Vernet,  as  uniting  in  himself  a  singular  and  strik- 
ing example  of  the  false  and  the  true ;  and  also  as  the 
least  invidious  instance,  inasmuch  as  we  may  prove  our 
position  by  opposing  him  to  himself. 

der  them  a  distinct  people,  and  their  very  air  reminds  us  of  another  age. 
We  cannot  but  believe  we  should  have  had  a  very  different  group,  and  far 
superior  in  expression,  had  he  given  us  a  conception  of  his  own.  It  would 
at  least  have  been  in  accordance  with  the  rest,  animated  with  the  super- 
stitious enthusiasm  of  the  surrounding  crowd  ;  and  especially  as  sacrificing 
Priests  would  they  have  been  amazed  and  awe-stricken  in  the  living  pres- 
ence of  a  god,  instead  of  personating,  as  in  the  present  group,  the  cold 
officials  of  the  Temple,  going  through  a  stated  task  at  the  shrine  of  their 
idol.  In  the  figure  by  Poussin,  which  he  borrowed  from  Michael  Angelo, 
the  discrepancy  is  still  greater.  The  original  figure,  which  was  in  the  Car- 
toon at  Pisa,  (now  known  only  by  a  print,)  is  that  of  a  warrior  who  has  been 
suddenly  roused  from  the  act  of  bathing  by  the  sound  of  a  trumpet ;  he  has 
just  leaped  upon  the  bank,  and,  in  his  haste  to  obey  its  summons,  thrusts 
his  foot  through  his  garment.  Nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  than  the 
violence  of  this  action ;  it  is  in  unison  with  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the 
occasion.  And  this  is  the  figure  which  Poussin  (without  the  slightest 
change,  if  we  recollect  aright)  has  transferred  to  the  still  and  solemn 
scene  in  which  John  baptizes  the  Saviour.  No  one  can  look  at  this  figure 
without  suspecting  the  plagiarism.  Similar  instances  may  be  found  in  his 
other  works  ;  as  in  the  Plague  of  the  Philistines,  where  the  Alcibiades  of 
Kaffaelle  is  coolly  sauntering  among  the  dead  and  dying,  and  with  as  little 
relation  to  the  infected  multitude  as  if  he  were  still  with  Socrates  in  the 
School  of  Athens.  In  the  same  picture  may  be  found  also  one  of  the 
Apostles  from  the  Cartoon  of  the  Draught  of  Pishes  :  and  we  may  natural- 
ly ask  what  business  he  has  there.  And  yet  such  appropriations  have  been 
made  to  appear  no  thefts,  simply  because  no  attempt  seems  to  have  been 
made  at  concealment !  But  theft,  we  must  be  allowed  to  think,  is  still 
theft,  whether  committed  in  the  dark,  or  in  the  face  of  day.  And  the  ex- 
ample is  a  dangerous  one,  inasmuch  as  it  comes  from  men  who  were  not 
constrained  to  resort  to  such  shifts  by  any  poverty  of  invention. 

Akin  to  this  is  another  and  larger  kind  of  borrowing,  which,  though  it 
cannot  strictly  be  called  copying,  yet  so  evidently  betrays  a  foreign  origin, 
as  to  produce  the  same  effect.  We  allude  to  the  adoption  of  the  peculiar 
lines,  handling,  and  disposition  of  masse-,  &c,  of  any  particular  master. 


COMPOSITION. 


161 


In  the  landscapes  of  Vernet,  (when  not  mere  views,) 
we  see  the  imitator  of  Salvator,  or  rather  copyist  of  his 
lines;  and  these  we  have  in  all  their  angular  naked- 
ness, where  rocks,  trees,  and  mountains  are  so  jagged, 
contorted,  and  tumbled  about,  that  nothing  but  an 
explosion  could  account  for  their  assemblage.  They 
have  not  the  relation  which  we  sometimes  find  even  in 
a  random  collocation,  as  in  the  accidental  pictures  of  a 
discolored  wall;  for  the  careful  hand  of  the  contriver 
is  traced  through  all  this  disorder ;  nay,  the  very  execu- 
tion, the  conventional  dash  of  pencil,  betrays  what  a 
lawyer  would  call  the  malice  prepense  of  the  Artist  in 
their  strange  disfigurement.  To  many  this  may  appear 
like  hypercriticism ;  but  we  sincerely  believe  that  no 
one,  even  among  his  admirers,  has  ever  been  deceived 
into  a  real  sympathy  with  such  technical  flourishes : 
they  are  felt  as  factitious ;  as  mere  diagrams  of  compo- 
sition deduced  from  pictures. 

Now  let  us  look  at  one  of  his  Storms  at  Sea,  when 
he  wrought  from  his  own  mind.  A  dark  leaden  at- 
mosphere prepares  us  for  something  fearful :  suddenly  a 
scene  of  tumult,  fierce,  wild,  disastrous,  bursts  upon  us ; 
and  we  feel  the  shock  drive,  as  it  were,  every  other 
thought  from  the  mind :  the  terrible  vision  now  seizes 
the  imagination,  filling  it  with  sound  and  motion  :  we 
see  the  clouds  fly,  the  furious  waves  one  upon  another 
dashing  in  conflict,  and  rolling,  as  if  in  wrath,  to- 
wards the  devoted  ship :  the  wind  blows  from  the  can- 
vas ;  we  hear  it  roar  through  her  shrouds  ;  her  masts 
bend  like  twigs,  and  her  last  forlorn  hope,  the  close- 
reefed  foresail,  streams  like  a  tattered  flag:  a  terrible 
fascination  still  constrains  us  to  look,  and  a  dim,  rocky 
shore  looms  on  her  lee :  then  comes  the  dreadful  cry  of 
"  Breakers  ahead ! n  the  crew  stand  appalled,  and  the 
14* 


162 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


master's  trumpet  is  soundless  at  his  lips.  This  is  the 
uproar  of  nature,  and  we  feel  it  to  be  true ;  for  here  every 
line,  every  touch,  has  a  meaning.  The  ragged  clouds, 
the  huddled  waves,  the  prostrate  ship,  though  forced  by 
contrast  into  the  sharpest  angles,  all  agree,  opposed  as 
they  seem,  —  evolving  harmony  out  of  apparent  dis- 
cord. And  this  is  Genius,  which  no  criticism  can  ever 
disprove. 

But  all  great  names,  it  is  said,  must  have  their  shad- 
ows. In  our  Art  they  have  many  shadows,  or  rather  I 
should  say,  reflections ;  which  are  more  or  less  distinct 
according  to  their  proximity  to  the  living  originals,  and, 
like  the  images  in  opposite  mirrors,  becoming  them- 
selves reflected  and  re-reflected  with  a  kind  of  battle- 
door  alternation,  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer  till  they 
vanish  from  mere  distance. 

Thus  have  the  great  schools  of  Italy,  Flanders,  and 
Holland  lived  and  walked  after  death,  till  even  their 
ghosts  have  become  familiar  to  us. 

We  would  not,  however,  be  understood  as  asserting 
that  we  receive  pleasure  only  from  original  works  :  this 
would  be  contradicting  the  general  experience.  We 
admit,  on  the  contrary,  that  there  are  hundreds,  nay, 
thousands,  of  pictures  having  no  pretensions  to  origi- 
nality of  any  kind,  which  still  afford  pleasure  ;  as,  indeed, 
do  many  things  out  of  the  Art,  which  we  know  to  be 
second-hand,  or  imperfect,  and  even  trifling.  Thus  grace 
of  manner,  for  instance,  though  wholly  unaided  by  a 
single  definite  quality,  will  often  delight  us,  and  a  ready 
elocution,  with  scarce  a  particle  of  sense,  make  com- 
monplace agreeable ;  and  it  seems  to  be,  that  the  pain 
of  mental  inertness  renders  action  so  desirable,  that  the 
mind  instinctively  surrounds  itself  with  myriads  of  ob- 
jects, having  little  to  recommend  them  but  the  property 
of  keeping  it  from  stagnating.    And  we  are  far  from 


COMPOSITION. 


163 


denying  a  certain  value  to  any  of  these,  provided  they 
be  innocent :  there  are  times  when  even  the  wisest  man 
will  find  commonplace  wholesome.  All  we  have  at- 
tempted to  show  is,  that  the  effect  of  an  original  work, 
as  opposed  to  an  imitation,  is  marked  by  a  difference, 
not  of  degree  merely,  but  of  kind ;  and  that  this  differ- 
ence cannot  fail  to  be  felt,  not,  indeed,  by  every  one, 
but  by  any  competent  judge,  that  is,  any  one  in  whom 
is  developed,  by  natural  exercise,  that  internal  sense  by 
which  the  spirit  of  life  is  discerned. 

*  *  *  1  *  * 

Every  original  work  becomes  such  from  the  infu- 
sion, so  to  speak,  of  the  mind  of  the  Author ;  and  of 
this  the  fresh  materials  of  nature  alone  seem  suscepti- 
ble. The  imitated  works  of  man  cannot  be  endued 
with  a  second  life,  that  is,  with  a  second  mind :  they 
are  to  the  imitator  as  air  already  breathed. 

*  *  *  *  * 

What  has  been  said  in  relation  to  Form  —  that  the 
works  of  our  predecessors,  so  far  as  they  are  recognized 
as  true,  are  to  be  considered  as  an  extension  of  Nature, 
and  therefore  proper  objects  of  study — is  equally  appli- 
cable to  Composition.  But  it  is  not  to  be  understood 
that  this  extended  Nature  (if  we  may  so  term  it)  is  in 
any  instance  to  be  imitated  as  a  ivhole,  which  would 
be  bringing  our  minds  into  bondage  to  another ;  since, 
as  already  shown  in  the  second  Discourse,  every  origi- 
nal work  is  of  necessity  impressed  with  the  mind  of  its 
author.  If  it  be  asked,  then,  what  is  the  advantage  of 
such  study,  we  shall  endeavour  to  show,  that  it  is  not 
merely,  as  some  have  supposed,  in  enriching  the  mind 
with  materials,  but  rather  in  widening  our  view  of  ex- 
cellence, and,  by  consequent  excitement,  expanding  our 
own  powers  of  observation,  reflection,  and  perform- 
ance.    By  increasing  the  power  of  Derformance,  we 


164 


LECTURES   ON  ART. 


mean  enlarging  our  knowledge  of  the  technical  pro- 
cess, or  the  medium  through  which  thought  is  express- 
ed; a  most  important  species  of  knowledge,  which, 
if  to  be  otherwise  attained,  is  at  least  most  readily 
learned  from  those  who  have  left  us  the  result  of 
their  experience.  This  technical  process,  which  has 
been  well  called  the  language  of  the  Art,  includes,  of 
course,  all  that  pertains  to  Composition,  which,  as  the 
general  medium,  also  contains  most  of  the  elements  of 
this  peculiar  tongue. 

From  the  gradual  progress  of  the  various  arts  of  civ- 
ilization, it  would  seem  that  only  under  the  action  of 
some  great  social  law  can  man  arrive  at  the  full  devel- 
opement  of  his  powers.  In  our  Art  especially  is  this 
true;  for  the  experience  of  one  man  must  necessarily 
be  limited,  particularly  if  compared  with  the  endless 
varieties  of  form  and  effect  which  diversify  the  face  of 
Nature  ;  and  the  finest  of  these,  too,  in  their  very  nature 
transient,  or  of  rare  occurrence,  and  only  known  to  oc- 
cur to  those  who  are  prepared  to  seize  them  in  their 
rapid  transit ;  so  that  in  one  short  life,  and  with  but 
one  set  of  senses,  the  greatest  genius  can  learn  but  lit- 
tle. The  Artist,  therefore,  must  needs  owe  much  to  the 
living,  and  more  to  the  dead,  who  are  virtually  his  com- 
panions, inasmuch  as  through  their  works  they  still  live 
to  our  sympathies.  Besides,  in  our  great  predecessors 
we  may  be  said  to  possess  a  multiplied  life,  if  life  be 
measured  by  the  number  of  acts,  —  which,  in  this  case, 
we  may  all  appropriate  to  ourselves,  as  it  were  by  a 
glance.  For  the  dead  in  Art  may  well  be  likened  to 
the  hardy  pioneers  of  our  own  country,  who  have  suc- 
cessively cleared  before  us  the  swamps  and  forests  that 
would  have  obstructed  our  progress,  and  opened  to  us 
lands  which  the  efforts  of  no  individual,  however  per- 
severing, would  enable  him  to  reach. 


APHORISMS. 


SENTENCES 


WRITTEN  BY  MR.  ALLSTON  ON  THE  WALLS  OF  HIS  STUDIO. 


1.  "  No  genuine  work  of  Art  ever  was,  or  ever  can 
be,  produced  but  for  its  own  sake  ;  if  the  painter  does 
not  conceive  to  please  himself,  he  will  not  finish  to 
please  the  world." —  Fuseli. 

2.  If  an  Artist  love  his  Art  for  its  own  sake,  he  will 
delight  in  excellence  wherever  he  meets  it,  as  well  in  the 
work  of  another  as  in  his  own.  This  is  the  test  of  a 
true  love. 

3.  Nor  is  this  genuine  love  compatible  with  a  craving 
for  distinction ;  where  the  latter  predominates,  it  is  sure 
to  betray  itself  before  contemporary  excellence,  either 
by  silence,  or  (as  a  bribe  to  the  conscience)  by  a  modi- 
cum of  praise. 

The  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  so  influenced  is  confined 
to  itself. 

4.  Distinction  is  the  consequence,  never  the  object,  of 
a  great  mind. 


168 


APHORISMS. 


5.  The  love  of  gain  never  made  a  Painter ;  but  it 
has  marred  many. 

6.  The  most  common  disguise  of  Envy  is  in  the 
praise  of  what  is  subordinate. 

7.  Selfishness  in  Art,  as  in  other  things,  is  sensibility 
kept  at  home. 

8.  The  Devil's  heartiest  laugh  is  at  a  detracting  wit- 
ticism. Hence  the  phrase  "  devilish  good  "  has  some- 
times a  literal  meaning. 

9.  The  most  intangible,  and  therefore  the  worst,  kind 
of  lie  is  a  half  truth.  This  is  the  peculiar  device  of  a 
conscientious  detractor. 

10.  Reverence  is  an  ennobling  sentiment;  it  is  felt 
to  be  degrading  only  by  the  vulgar  mind,  which  would 
escape  the  sense  of  its  own  littleness  by  elevating  itself 
into  an  antagonist  of  what  is  above  it.  He  that  has 
no  pleasure  in  looking  up  is  not  fit  so  much  as  to  look 
down.  Of  such  minds  are  mannerists  in  Art ;  in  the 
world,  tyrants  of  all  sorts. 

11.  No  right  judgment  can  ever  be  formed  on  any 
subject  having  a  moral  or  intellectual  bearing  without  be- 
nevolence ;  for  so  strong  is  man's  natural  self-bias,  that, 
without  this  restraining  principle,  he  insensibly  becomes 
a  competitor  in  all  such  cases  presented  to  his  mind ; 
and,  when  the  comparison  is  thus  made  personal,  unless 
the  odds  be  immeasurably  against  him,  his  decision 
will  rarely  be  impartial.  In  other  words,  no  one  can 
see  any  thing  as  it  really  is  through  the  misty  spectacles 


APHORISMS. 


L69 


of  self-love.  We  must  w  ish  well  to  another  in  order  to 
do  him  justice.  Now  the  virtue  in  this  good-will  is  not 
to  blind  us  to  his  faults,  bul  to  our  own  rival  and  in- 
terposing merits. 

L2.  In  the  same  degree  thai  we  overrule  ourselves, 
we  shall  underrate  others;  foi  Injustice  allowed  a1  home 

is  not  likely  to  be  corrected  abroad.     \ever,  therefore, 

expect  justice  from  a  vain  man;  if  he  has  the  nega- 
tive magnanimity  not  to  disparage  yon,  it  is  the  mos1 
you  can  expect. 

L3.  The  Phrenologists  are  right  in  placing  the  or- 
gan of  self-love  in  the  hack  of  the  head,  it  being  there 
where  a  vain  man  carries  his  intellectual  lighl  ;  the  con- 
sequence of  which  is,  thai  every  man  he  approaches  is 
obscured  by  his  own  shadow. 

14.  Nothing  18  rarer  than  a  solitary  lie;  for  lies  breed 
like  Surinam  loads  :  yon  cannot  tell  one  but  out  it  conies 
with  a  hundred  young  ones  on  its  back. 

15.  If  the  whole  world  should  agree  to  speak  nothing 
but  truth,  what  an  abridgment  it  would  make  of  speech ! 
And  what  an  unravelling  there  would  be  of  the  invisi- 
ble webs  which  men,  like  so  many  spiders,  now  weave 
about  each  other!  But  the  contest  between  Truth  and 
Falsehood  is  now  pretty  well  balanced.  Were  it  not  so, 
and  had  the  latter  the  mastery,  even  language  would 
soon  become  extinct,  from  its  very  uselessness.  The 
present  superfluity  of  word-  is  the  result  of  the  warfare. 

lft    A  witch's  skill"  cannot   more  easily  sail  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind,  than  the  human  rijr  lie  against  fact; 
15 


170 


APHORISMS. 


but  the  truth  will  oftener  quiver  through  lips  with  a  lie 
upon  them. 

17.  An  open  brow  with  a  clenched  hand  shows  any- 
thing but  an  open  purpose. 

18.  It  is  a  hard  matter  for  a  man  to  lie  all  over,  Na- 
ture having  provided  king's  evidence  in  almost  e very- 
member.  The  hand  will  sometimes  act  as  a  vane  to 
show  which  way  the  wind  blows,  when  every  feature  is 
set  the  other  way  ;  the  knees  smite  together,  and  sound 
the  alarm  of  fear,  under  a  fierce  countenance ;  and  the 
legs  shake  with  anger,  when  all  above  is  calm. 

19.  Nature  observes  a  variety  even  in  her  correspon- 
dences ;  insomuch  that  in  parts  which  seem  but  repeti- 
tions there  will  be  found  a  difference.  For  instance,  in 
the  human  countenance,  the  two  sides  of  which  are 
never  identical.  Whenever  she  deviates  into  monoto- 
ny, the  deviation  is  always  marked  as  an  exception  by 
some  striking  deficiency  ;  as  in  idiots,  who  are  the  only 
persons  that  laugh  equally  on  both  sides  of  the  mouth. 

The  insipidity  of  many  of  the  antique  Statues  may 
be  traced  to  the  false  assumption  of  identity  in  the  cor- 
responding parts.  No  work  wrought  by  feeling  (which, 
after  all,  is  the  ultimate  rule  of  Genius)  was  ever  mark- 
ed by  this  monotony. 

20.  He  is  but  half  an  orator  who  turns  his  hearers 
into  spectators.  The  best  gestures  (quoad  the  speaker) 
are  those  which  he  cannot  help.  An  unconscious  thump 
of  the  fist  or  jerk  of  the  elbow  is  more  to  the  purpose, 
(whatever  that  may  be,)  than  the  most  graceful  cut- 
arid-dried  action.     It  matters  not  whether  the  orator 


APHORISMS. 


171 


personates  a  trip-hammer  or  a  wind-mill;  if  his  mill 
but  move  with  the  grist,  or  his  hammer  knead  the  iron 
beneath  it,  he  will  not  fail  of  his  effect.  An  impertinent 
gesture  is  more  likely  to  knock  down  the  orator  than 
his  opponent. 

21.  The  only  true  independence  is  in  humility ;  for 
the  humble  man  exacts  nothing,  and  cannot  be  morti- 
fied,—  expects  nothing,  and  cannot  be  disappointed. 
Humility  is  also  a  healing  virtue ;  it  will  cicatrize  a 
thousand  wounds,  which  pride  would  keep  for  ever 
open.  But  humility  is  not  the  virtue  of  a  fool ;  since 
it  is  not  consequent  upon  any  comparison  between 
ourselves  and  others,  but  between  what  we  are  and 
what  we  ought  to  be,  —  which  no  man  ever  was. 

22.  The  greatest  of  all  fools  is  the  proud  fool, — who 
is  at  the  mercy  of  every  fool  he  meets. 

23.  There  is  an  essential  meanness  in  the  wish  to 
get  the  better  of  any  one.  The  only  competition  worthy 
of  a  wise  man  is  with  himself. 

24.  He  that  argues  for  victory  is  but  a  gambler  in 
words,  seeking  to  enrich  himself  by  another's  loss. 

25.  Some  men  make  their  ignorance  the  measure  of 
excellence ;  these  are,  of  course,  very  fastidious  critics ; 
for,  knowing  little,  they  can  find  but  little  to  like. 

26.  The  Painter  who  seeks  popularity  in  Art  closes 
the  door  upon  his  own  genius. 

27.  Popular  excellence  in  one  age  is  but  the  mechanism 
of  what  was  good  in  the  preceding;  in  Art,  the  technic. 


172 


APHORISMS. 


28.  Make  no  man  your  idol,  for  the  best  man  must 
have  faults  ;  and  his  faults  will  insensibly  become  yours, 
in  addition  to  your  own.  This  is  as  true  in  Art  as  in 
morals. 

29.  A  man  of  genius  should  not  aim  at  praise,  except 
in  the  form  of  sympathy;  this  assures  him  of  his  suc- 
cess, since  it  meets  the  feeling  which  possessed  himself. 

30.  Originality  in  Art  is  the  individualizing  the  Uni- 
versal ;  in  other  words,  the  impregnating  some  general 
truth  with  the  individual  mind. 

31.  The  painter  who  is  content  with  the  praise  of 
the  world  in  respect  to  what  does  not  satisfy  himself,  is 
not  an  artist,  but  an  artisan ;  for  though  his  reward  be 
only  praise,  his  pay  is  that  of  a  mechanic,  —  for  his 
time,  and  not  for  his  art. 

32.  Reputation  is  but  a  synonyme  of  popularity ; 
dependent  on  suffrage,  to  be  increased  or  diminished  at 
the  will  of  the  voters.  It  is  the  creature,  so  to  speak, 
of  its  particular  age,  or  rather  of  a  particular  state  of 
society;  consequently,  dying  with  that  which  sus- 
tained it.  Hence  we  can  scarcely  go  over  a  page  of 
history,  that  we  do  not,  as  in  a  church-yard,  tread  upon 
some  buried  reputation.  But  fame  cannot  be  voted 
down,  having  its  immediate  foundation  in  the  essential. 
It  is  the  eternal  shadow  of  excellence,  from  which  it 
can  never  be  separated ;  nor  is  it  ever  made  visible  but 
in  the  light  of  an  intellect  kindred  with  that  of  its  au- 
thor. It  is  that  light  which  projects  the  shadow  which 
is  seen  of  the  multitude,  to  be  wondered  at  and  rever- 
enced, even  while  so  little  comprehended  as  to  be  often 
confounded  with  the  substance,  —  the  substance  being 


APHORISMS. 


173 


admitted  from  the  shadow,  as  a  matter  of  faith.  It  is 
the  economy  of  Providence  to  provide  such  lights :  like 
rising  and  setting  stars,  they  follow  each  other  through 
successive  ages  :  and  thus  the  monumental  form  of  Geni- 
us stands  for  ever  relieved  against  its  own  imperishable 
shadow. 

33.  All  excellence  of  every  kind  is  but  variety  of 
truth.  If  we  wish,  then,  for  something  beyond  the 
true,  we  wish  for  that  which  is  false.  According  to 
this  test,  how  little  truth  is  there  in  Art !  Little  in- 
deed !  but  how  much  is  that  little  to  him  who  feels  it ! 

34.  Fame  does  not  depend  on  the  ivill  of  any  man, 
but  Reputation  may  be  given  or  taken  away.  Fame  is 
the  sympathy  of  kindred  intellects,  and  sympathy  is 
not  a  subject  of  ivilling ;  while  Reputation,  having  its 
source  in  the  popular  voice,  is  a  sentence  which  may 
either  be  uttered  or  suppressed  at  pleasure.  Reputa- 
tion, being  essentially  contemporaneous,  is  always  at 
the  mercy  of  the  envious  and  the  ignorant ;  but  Fame, 
whose  very  birth  is  posthumous,  and  which  is  only 
known  to  exist  by  the  echo  of  its  footsteps  through  con- 
genial minds,  can  neither  be  increased  nor  diminished 
by  any  degree  of  will. 

35.  "What  light  is  in  the  natural  world,  such  is  fame 
in  the  intellectual ;  both  requiring  an  atmosphere  in  or- 
der to  become  perceptible.  Hence  the  fame  of  Michael 
Angelo  is,  to  some  minds,  a  nonentity;  even  as  the 
sun  itself  would  be  invisible  in  vacuo. 

36.  Fame  has  no  necessary  conjunction  with  Praise  : 
it  may  exist  without  the  breath  of  a  word  ;  it  is  a  recog- 

15* 


174 


APHORISMS. 


nition  of  excellence,  which  must  be  felt,  but  need  not  be 
spoken.  Even  the  envious  must  feel  it,  —  feel  it,  and 
hate  it,  in  silence. 

37.  I  cannot  believe  that  any  man  who  deserved 
fame  ever  labored  for  it ;  that  is,  directly.  For,  as 
fame  is  but  the  contingent  of  excellence,  it  would  be 
like  an  attempt  to  project  a  shadow,  before  its  sub- 
stance was  obtained.  Many,  however,  have  so  fancied. 
"  I  write,  I  paint,  for  fame,"  has  often  been  repeated :  it 
should  have  been,  "I  write,  I  paint,  for  reputation." 
All  anxiety,  therefore,  about  Fame  should  be  placed  to 
the  account  of  Reputation. 

38.  A  man  may  be  pretty  sure  that  he  has  not  at- 
tained excellence,  when  it  is  not  all  in  all  to  him.  Nay,  I 
may  add,  that,  if  he  looks  beyond  it,  he  has  not  reached 
it.    This  is  not  the  less  true  for  being  good  Irish. 

39.  An  original  mind  is  rarely  understood,  until  it 
has  been  reflected  from  some  half-dozen  congenial  with 
it,  so  averse  are  men  to  admitting  the  true  in  an  unu- 
sual form ;  whilst  any  novelty,  however  fantastic,  how- 
ever false,  is  greedily  swallowed.  Nor  is  this  to  be 
wondered  at ;  for  all  truth  demands  a  response,  and  few 
people  care  to  think,  yet  they  must  have  something  to 
supply  the  place  of  thought.  Every  mind  would  ap- 
pear original,  if  every  man  had  the  power  of  projecting 
his  own  into  the  mind  of  others. 

40.  All  effort  at  originality  must  end  either  in  the 
quaint  or  the  monstrous.  For  no  man  knows  himself 
as  an  original ;  he  can  only  believe  it  on  the  report  of 
others  to  whom  he  is  made  known,  as  he  is  by  the  pro- 
jecting power  before  spoken  of. 


V 


APHORISMS. 


175 


41.  There  is  one  thing  which  no  man,  however  gen- 
erously disposed,  can  give,  but  which  every  one,  howev- 
er poor,  is  bound  to  pay.  This  is  Praise.  He  cannot 
give  it,  because  it  is  not  his  own,  —  since  what  is  de- 
pendent for  its  very  existence  on  something  in  another 
can  never  become  to  him  a  possession ;  nor  can  he  just- 
ly withhold  it,  when  the  presence  of  merit  claims  it  as 
a  consequence.  As  praise,  then,  cannot  be  made  a  gift, 
so,  neither,  when  not  his  due,  can  any  man  receive  it : 
he  may  think  he  does,  but  he  receives  only  words ;  for 
desert  being  the  essential  condition  of  praise,  there  can 
be  no  reality  in  the  one  without  the  other.  This  is  no 
fanciful  statement ;  for,  though  praise  may  be  withheld 
by  the  ignorant  or  envious,  it  cannot  be  but  that,  in 
the  course  of  time,  an  existing  merit  will,  on  some  one, 
produce  its  effects ;  inasmuch  as  the  existence  of  any 
cause  without  its  effect  is  an  impossibility.  A  fearful 
truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  this,  an  irreversible  justice 
for  the  weal  or  woe  of  him  who  confirms  or  violates  it. 


[From  the  back  of  a  pencil  sketch.] 

Let  no  man  trust  to  the  gentleness,  the  generosity,  or 
seeming  goodness  of  his  heart,  in  the  hope  that  they 
alone  can  safely  bear  him  through  the  temptations  of 
this  world.  This  is  a  state  of  probation,  and  a  perilous 
passage  to  the  true  beginning  of  life,  where  even  the 
best  natures  need  continually  to  be  reminded  of  their 
weakness,  and  to  find  their  only  security  in  steadily  re- 
ferring all  their  thoughts,  acts,  affections,  to  the  ulti- 
mate end  of  their  being :  yet  where,  imperfect  as  we 
are,  there  is  no  obstacle  too  mighty,  no  temptation 


176 


APHORISMS. 


too  strong,  to  the  truly  humble  in  heart,  who,  distrust- 
ing themselves,  seek  to  be  sustained  only  by  that  holy 
Being  who  is  life  and  power,  and  who,  in  his  love  and 
mercy,  has  promised  to  give  to  those  that  ask.  —  Such 
were  my  reflections,  to  which  I  was  giving  way  on  read- 
ing this  melancholy  story. 

If  he  is  satisfied  with  them,  he  may  rest  assured  that 
he  is  neither  fitted  for  this  world  nor  the  next.  Even 
in  this,  there  are  wrongs  and  sorrows  which  no  human 
remedy  can  reach  ;  —  no,  tears  cannot  restore  what  is 
lost. 

[Written  in  a  book  of  sketches,  with  a  pencil.] 

A  real  debt  of  gratitude  —  that  is,  founded  on  a  dis- 
interested act  of  kindness  —  cannot  be  cancelled  by  any 
subsequent  unkindness  on  the  part  of  our  benefactor. 
If  the  favor  be  of  a  pecuniary  nature,  we  may,  indeed, 
by  returning  an  equal  or  greater  sum,  balance  the  mon- 
eyed part;  but  we  cannot  liquidate  the  kind  motive  by 
the  setting  off  against  it  any  number  of  unkind  ones. 
For  an  after  injury  can  no  more  undo  a  previous  kind- 
ness, than  we  can  prevent  in  the  future  what  has  hap- 
pened in  the  past.  So  neither  can  a  good  act  undo  an 
ill  one:  a  fearful  truth  !  For  good  and  evil  have  a  moral 
life,  which  nothing  in  time  can  extinguish ;  the  instant 
they  exists  they  start  for  Eternity.  How,  then,  can  a 
man  who  has  once  sinned,  and  who  has  not  of  himself 
cleansed  his  soul,  be  fit  for  heaven  where  no  sin  can  en- 
ter ?  I  seek  not  to  enter  into  the  mystery  of  the  atone- 
ment, "  which  even  the  angels  sought  to  comprehend 
and  could  not " ;  but  I  feel  its  truth  in  an  unutterable 
conviction,  and  that,  without  it,  all  flesh  must  perish. 
Equally  deep,  too,  and  unalienable,  is  my  conviction 
that  "  the  fruit  of  sin  is  misery."    A  second  birth  to  the 


APHORISMS. 


177 


soul  is  therefore  a  necessity  which  sin  forces  upon  us. 
Ay,  —  but  not  against  the  desperate  will  that  rejects  it. 

This  conclusion  was  not  anticipated  when  I  wrote 
the  first  sentence  of  the  preceding  paragraph.  But  it 
does  not  surprise  me.  For  it  is  but  a  recurrence  of  what 
I  have  repeatedly  experienced ;  namely,  that  I  never  light- 
ed on  any  truth  which  I  inwardly  felt  as  such,  however 
apparently  remote  from  our  religious  being,  (as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  philosophy  of  my  art,)  that,  by  following 
it  out,  did  not  find  its  illustration  and  confirmation  in 
some  great  doctrine  of  the  Bible,  —  the  only  true  phi- 
losophy, the  sole  fountain  of  light,  where  the  dark  ques- 
tions of  the  understanding  which  have  so  long  stood, 
like  chaotic  spectres,  between  the  fallen  soul  and  its 
reason,  at  once  lose  their  darkness  and  their  terror. 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC* 


He  would  not  taste,  but  swallowed  life  at  once ; 
And  scarce  had  reached  his  prime  ere  he  had  bolted, 
With  all  its  garnish,  mixed  of  sweet  and  sour, 
Full  fourscore  years.   For  he,  in  truth,  did  wot  not 
What  most  he  craved,  and  so  devoured  all ; 
Then,  with  his  gases,  followed  Indigestion, 
Making  it  food  for  night-mares  and  their  foals. 

Bridgen.-f 


It  was  the  opinion  of  an  ancient  philosopher,  that  we 
can  have  no  want  for  which  Nature  does  not  provide  an 
appropriate  gratification.  As  it  regards  our  physical 
wants,  this  appears  to  be  true.  But  there  are  moral 
cravings  which  extend  beyond  the  world  we  live  in ;  and, 
were  we  in  a  heathen  age,  would  serve  us  with  an  un- 
answerable argument  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
That  these  cravings  are  felt  by  all,  there  can  be  no 
doubt ;  yet  that  all  feel  them  in  the  same  degree  would 
be  as  absurd  to  suppose,  as  that  every  man  possesses 
equal  sensibility  or  understanding.  Boswell's  desires, 
from  his  own  account,  seem  to  have  been  limited  to 
reading  Shakspeare  in  the  other  world,  —  whether  with 
or  without  his  commentators,  he  has  left  us  to  guess ; 

*  First  printed  in  1821,  in  «  The  Idle  Man,"  No.  II.  p.  38. 
f  A  feigned  name.  —  Editor, 

16 


182 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


and  Newton  probably  pined  for  the  sight  of  those  distant 
stars  whose  light  has  not  yet  reached  us.  What  origi- 
nally was  the  particular  craving  of  my  own  mind  I  can- 
not now  recall;  but  that  I  had,  even  in  my  boyish  days, 
an  insatiable  desire  after  something  which  always  eluded 
me,  I  well  remember.  As  I  grew  into  manhood,  my  de- 
sires became  less  definite ;  and  by  the  time  I  had  passed 
through  college,  they  seemed  to  have  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  general  passion  for  doing. 

It  is  needless  to  enumerate  the  different  subjects 
which  one  after  another  engaged  me.  Mathematics, 
metaphysics,  natural  and  moral  philosophy,  were  each 
begun,  and  each  in  turn  given  up  in  a  passion  of  love 
and  disgust. 

It  is  the  fate  of  all  inordinate  passions  to  meet  their 
extremes ;  so  was  it  with  mine.  Could  I  have  pursued 
any  of  these  studies  with  moderation,  I  might  have  been 
to  this  day,  perhaps,  both  learned  and  happy.  But  I 
could  be  moderate  in  nothing.  Not  content  with  being 
employed,  I  must  always  be  busy;  and  business,  as 
every  one  knows,  if  long  continued,  must  end  in  fatigue, 
and  fatigue  in  disgust,  and  disgust  in  change,  if  that  be 
practicable,  —  which  unfortunately  was  my  case. 

The  restlessness  occasioned  by  these  half-finished 
studies  brought  on  a  severe  fit  of  self-examination. 
Why  is  it,  I  asked  myself,  that  these  learned  works, 
which  have  each  furnished  their  authors  with  sufficient 
excitement  to  effect  their  completion,  should  thus  weary 
me  before  I  get  midway  into  them  ?  It  is  plain  enough. 
As  a  reader  I  am  merely  a  recipient,  but  the  composer 
is  an  active  agent ;  a  vast  difference !  And  now  I  can 
account  for  the  singular  pleasure,  which  a  certain  bad 
poet  of  my  acquaintance  always  took  in  inflicting  his 
verses  on  every  one  who  would  listen  to  him  ;  each  pe- 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


183 


msal  being  but  a  sort  of  mental  echo  of  the  original 
bliss  of  composition.  I  will  set  about  writing  immedi- 
ately. 

Having,  time  out  of  mind,  heard  the  epithet  great 
coupled  with  Historians,  it  was  that,  I  believe,  inclined 
me  to  write  a  history.  I  chose  my  subject,  and  began 
collating,  and  transcribing,  night  and  day,  as  if  I  had 
not  another  hour  to  live  ;  and  on  I  went  with  the  indus- 
try of  a  steam-engine ;  when  it  one  day  occurred  to  me, 
that,  though  I  had  been  laboring  for  months,  I  had  not 
yet  had  occasion  for  one  original  thought.  Pshaw! 
said  I,  't  is  only  making  new  clothes  out  of  old  ones. 
I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  history. 

As  it  is  natural  for  a  mind  suddenly  disgusted  with 
mechanic  toil  to  seek  relief  from  its  opposite,  it  can 
easily  be  imagined  that  my  next  resource  was  Poetry. 
Every  one  rhymes  now-a-days,  and  so  can  I.  Shall  I 
write  an  Epic,  or  a  Tragedy,  or  a  Metrical  Romance  ? 
Epics  are  out  of  fashion  ;  even  Homer  and  Virgil  would 
hardly  be  read  in  our  time,  but  that  people  are  unwilling 
to  admit  their  schooling  to  have  been  thrown  away. 
As  to  Tragedy,  I  am  a  modern,  and  it  is  a  settled  thing 
that  no  modern  can  write  a  tragedy ;  so  I  must  not 
attempt  that.  Then  for  Metrical  Romances,  —  why, 
they  are  now  manufactured;  and,  as  the  Edinburgh 
Review  says,  may  be  "  imported  "  by  us  "  in  bales."  I 
will  bind  myself  to  no  particular  class,  but  give  free  play 
to  my  imagination.  With  this  resolution  I  went  to 
bed,  as  one  going  to  be  inspired.  The  morning  came; 
I  ate  my  breakfast,  threw  up  the  window,  and  placed 
myself  in  my  elbow-chair  before  it.  An  hour  passed, 
and  nothing  occurred  to  me.  But  this  I  ascribed  to  a 
fit  of  laughter  that  seized  me,  at  seeing  a  duck  made 
drunk  by  eating  rum-cherries.    I  turned  my  back  on  the 


184 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


window.  Another  hour  followed,  then  another,  and 
another :  I  was  still  as  far  from  poetry  as  ever ;  every 
object  about  me  seemed  bent  against  my  abstraction; 
the  card-racks  fascinating  me  like  serpents,  and  com- 
pelling me  to  read,  as  if  I  would  get  them  by  heart,  "  Dr. 
Joblin,"  "  Mr.  Cumberback,"  "  Mr.  Milton  Bull,"  &c.  &c. 
I  took  up  my  pen,  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  from  my  writ- 
ing-desk, and  fixed  my  eyes  upon  that ;  —  't  was  all  in 
vain ;  I  saw  nothing  on  it  but  the  watermark,  D.  Ames. 
I  laid  down  the  pen,  closed  my  eyes,  and  threw  my 
head  back  in  the  chair.  "  Are  you  waiting  to  be  shaved, 
Sir  ?  "  said  a  familiar  voice.  I  started  up,  and  overturn- 
ed my  servant.  "  No,  blockhead !  "  —  "I  am  waiting  to 
be  inspired  "  ;  —  but  this  I  added  mentally.  What  is  the 
cause  of  my  difficulty  ?  said  I.  Something  within  me 
seemed  to  reply,  in  the  words  of  Lear,  "  Nothing  comes 
of  nothing."  Then  I  must  seek  a  subject.  I  ran  over 
a  dozen  in  a  few  minutes,  chose  one  after  another,  and, 
though  twenty  thoughts  very  readily  occurred  on  each, 
I  was  fain  to  reject  them  all ;  some  for  wanting  pith, 
some  for  belonging  to  prose,  and  others  for  having  been 
worn  out  in  the  service  of  other  poets.  In  a  word,  my 
eyes  began  to  open  on  the  truth,  and  I  felt  convinced 
that  that  only  was  poetry  which  a  man  writes  because 
he  cannot  help  writing  ;  the  irrepressible  effluence  of  his 
secret  being  on  every  thing  in  sympathy  with  it, —  a 
kind  of  flowering  of  the  soul  amid  the  warmth  and  the 
light  of  nature.  I  am  no  poet,  I  exclaimed,  and  I  will 
not  disfigure  Mr.  Ames  with  commonplace  verses. 

I  know  not  how  I  should  have  borne  this  second  dis- 
appointment, had  not  the  title  of  a  new  Novel,  which 
then  came  into  my  head,  suggested  atrial  in  that  branch 
of  letters.  I  will  write  a  Novel.  Having  come  to  this 
determination,  the  next  thing  was  to  collect  materials. 


/ 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC.  185 

They  must  be  sought  after,  said  I,  for  my  late  experi- 
ment has  satisfied  me  that  I  might  wait  for  ever  in  my 
elbow-chair,  and  they  would  never  come  to  me  ;  they 
must  be  toiled  for,  —  not  in  books,  if  I  would  not  deal 
in  second-hand,  —  but  in  the  world,  that  inexhaustible 
storehouse  of  all  kinds  of  originals.  I  then  turned  over 
in  my  mind  the  various  characters  I  had  met  with  in 
life ;  amongst  these  a  few  only  seemed  fitted  for  any 
story,  and  those  rather  as  accessories ;  such  as  a  politi- 
cian who  hated  popularity,  a  sentimental  grave-digger, 
and  a  metaphysical  rope-dancer;  but  for  a  hero,  the 
grand  nucleus  of  my  fable,  I  was  sorely  at  a  loss.  This, 
however,  did  not  discourage  me.  I  knew  he  might  be 
found  in  the  world,  if  I  would  only  take  the  trouble  to 
look  for  him.  For  this  purpose  I  jumped  into  the  first 
stage-coach  that  passed  my  door;  it  was  immaterial 
whither  bound,  my  object  being  men,  not  places.  My 
first  day's  journey  offered  nothing  better  than  a  sailor 
who  rebuked  a  member  of  Congress  for  swearing.  But 
at  the  third  stage,  on  the  second  day,  as  we  were  chang- 
ing horses,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  light  on  a  face 
which  gave  promise  of  all  I  wanted.  It  was  so  remark- 
able that  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  it ;  the  forehead 
might  have  been  called  handsome  but  for  a  pair  of  enor- 
mous eyebrows,  that  seemed  to  project  from  it  like  the 
quarter-galleries  of  a  ship,  and  beneath  these  were  a 
couple  of  small,  restless,  gray  eyes,  which,  glancing  in 
every  direction  from  under  their  shaggy  brows,  sparkled 
like  the  intermittent  light  of  fire-flies  ;  in  the  nose  there 
was  nothing  remarkable,  except  that  it  was  crested  by  a 
huge  wart  with  a  small  grove  of  black  hairs  ;  but  the 
mouth  made  ample  amends,  being  altogether  indescrib- 
able, for  it  was  so  variable  in  its  expression,  that  I 
could  not  tell  whether  it  had  most  of  the  sardonic,  the 
16* 


186 


THE  HYPOCHOiNDRIAC. 


benevolent,  or  the  sanguinary,  appearing  to  exhibit  them 
all  in  succession  with  equal  vividness.  My  attention, 
however,  was  mainly  fixed  by  the  sanguinary  ;  it  came 
across  me  like  an  east  wind,  and  I  felt  a  cold  sweat 
damping  my  linen ;  and  when  this  was  suddenly  suc- 
ceeded by  the  benevolent,  I  was  sure  I  had  got  at  the 
secret  of  his  character,  —  no  less  than  that  of  a  murderer 
haunted  by  remorse.  Delighted  with  this  discovery,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  follow  the  owner  of  the  face  wher- 
ever he  went,  till  I  should  learn  his  history.  I  accord- 
ingly made  an  end  of  my  journey  for  the  present,  upon 
learning  that  the  stranger  was  to  pass  some  time  in  the 
place  where  we  stopped.  For  three  days  I  made  minute 
inquiries ;  but  all  I  could  gather  was,  that  he  had  been 
a  great  traveller,  though  of  what  country  no  one  could 
tell  me.  On  the  fourth  day,  finding  him  on  the  move, 
I  took  passage  in  the  same  coach.  Now,  said  I,  is  my 
time  of  harvest.  But  I  was  mistaken  ;  for,  in  spite  of 
all  the  lures  which  I  threw  out  to  draw  him  into  a  com- 
municative humor,  I  could  get  nothing  from  him  but 
monosyllables.  So  far  from  abating  my  ardor,  this 
reserve  only  the  more  whetted  my  curiosity.  At  last 
we  stopped  at  a  pleasant  village  in  New  Jersey.  Here  he 
seemed  a  little  better  known  ;  the  innkeeper  inquiring 
after  his  health,  and  the  hostler  asking  if  the  balls  he 
had  supplied  him  with  fitted  the  barrels  of  his  pistols. 
The  latter  inquiry  I  thought  was  accompanied  by  a  sig- 
nificant glance,  that  indicated  a  knowledge  on  the  hos- 
tler's part  of  more  than  met  the  ear ;  I  determined  there- 
fore to  sound  him.  After  a  few  general  remarks,  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  any  thing,  by  way  of  introduc- 
tion, I  began  by  hinting  some  random  surmises  as  to 
the  use  to  which  the  stranger  might  have  put  the  pis- 
tols he  spoke  of;  inquired  whether  he  was  in  the  habit 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


187 


of  loading  them  at  night ;  whether  he  slept  with  them 
under  his  pillow ;  if  he  was  in  the  practice  of  burning  a 
light  while  he  slept;  and  if  he  did  not  sometimes  awake 
the  family  by  groans,  or  by  walking  with  agitated  steps 
in  his  chamber.  But  it  was  all  in  vain,  the  man  pro- 
testing that  he  never  knew  any  thing  ill  of  him.  Per- 
haps, thought  I,  the  hostler  having  overheard  his  mid- 
night wanderings,  and  detected  his  crime,  is  paid  for 
keeping  the  secret.  I  pumped  the  landlord,  and  the 
landlady,  and  the  barmaid,  and  the  chambermaid,  and 
the  waiters,  and  the  cook,  and  every  thing  that  could 
speak  in  the  house ;  still  to  no  purpose,  each  ending  his 
reply  with,  "  Lord,  Sir,  he 's  as  honest  a  gentleman,  for 
aught  I  know,  as  any  in  the  world  " ;  then  would  come 
a  question,  —  "  But  perhaps  you  know  something  of  him 
yourself?  "  Whether  my  answer,  though  given  in  the 
negative,  was  uttered  in  such  a  tone  as  to  imply  an 
affirmative,  thereby  exciting  suspicion,  I  cannot  tell ;  but 
it  is  certain  that  I  soon  after  perceived  a  visible  change 
towards  him  in  the  deportment  of  the  whole  household. 
When  he  spoke  to  the  waiters,  their  jaws  fell,  their  fin- 
gers spread,  their  eyes  rolled,  with  every  symptom  of  in- 
voluntary action  ;  and  once,  when  he  asked  the  landlady 
to  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  him,  I  saw  her,  under  pre- 
tence of  looking  out  of  the  window,  throw  it  into  the 
street ;  in  short,  the  very  scullion  fled  at  his  approach, 
and  a  chambermaid  dared  not  enter  his  room  unless 
under  guard  of  a  large  mastiff.  That  these  circum- 
stances were  not  unobserved  by  him  will  appear  by 
what  follows. 

Though  I  had  come  no  nearer  to  facts,  this  general 
suspicion,  added  to  the  remarkable  circumstance  that  no 
one  had  ever  heard  his  name  (being  known  only  as  the 
gentleman),  gave  every  day  new  life  to  my  hopes.  He 


188 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


is  the  very  man,  said  I;  and  I  began  to  revel  in  all  the 
luxury  of  detection,  when,  as  I  was  one  night  undress- 
ing for  bed,  my  attention  was  caught  by  the  following 
letter  on  my  table. 

"  Sir, 

"  If  you  are  the  gentleman  you  would  be  thought,  you 
will  not  refuse  satisfaction  for  the  diabolical  calumnies 
you  have  so  unprovokedly  circulated  against  an  inno- 
cent man. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  Timoleon  Bub. 

"  P.  S.  I  shall  expect  you  at  five  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  at  the  three  elms,  by  the  river-side." 

This  invitation,  as  may  be  well  imagined,  discom- 
posed me  not  a  little.  Who  Mr.  Bub  was,  or  in  what 
way  I  had  injured  him,  puzzled  me  exceedingly.  Per- 
haps, thought  I,  he  has  mistaken  me  for  another  person ; 
if  so,  my  appearing  on  the  ground  will  soon  set  matters 
right.  With  this  persuasion  I  went  to  bed,  somewhat 
calmer  than  I  should  otherwise  have  been  ;  nay,  I  was 
even  composed  enough  to  divert  myself  with  the  folly 
of  one  bearing  so  vulgar  an  appellation  taking  it  into 
his  head  to  play  the  man  of  honor,  and  could  not  help 
a  waggish  feeling  of  curiosity  to  see  if  his  name  and 
person  were  in  keeping. 

I  woke  myself  in  the  morning  with  a  loud  laugh,  for 
I  had  dreamt  of  meeting,  in  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Bub,  a 
little  pot-bellied  man,  with  a  round  face,  a  red  snub- 
nose,  and  a  pair  of  gooseberry  wall-eyes.  My  fit  of 
pleasantry  was  far  from  passed  off  when  I  came  in  sight 
of  the  fatal  elms.    I  saw  my  antagonist  pacing  the 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


189 


ground  with  considerable  violence.  Ah !  said  I,  he  is 
trying  to  escape  from  his  unheroic  name  !  and  I  laughed 
again  at  the  conceit ;  but,  as  I  drew  a  little  nearer,  there 
appeared  a  majestic  altitude  in  his  figure  very  unlike 
what  I  had  seen  in  my  dream,  and  my  laugh  began  to 
stiffen  into  a  kind  of  rigid  grin.  There  now  came  upon 
me  something  very  like  a  misgiving  that  the  affair  might 
turn  out  to  be  no  joke.  I  felt  an  unaccountable  wish 
that  this  Mr.  Bub  had  never  been  born ;  still  I  advanced : 
but  if  an  aerolite  had  fallen  at  my  feet,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  startled,  than  when  I  found  in  the  person 
of  my  challenger  —  the  mysterious  stranger.  The  con- 
sequences of  my  curiosity  immediately  rushed  upon 
me,  and  I  was  no  longer  at  a  loss  in  what  way  I  had 
injured  him.  AH  my  merriment  seemed  to  curdle  with- 
in me  ;  and  I  felt  like  a  dog  that  had  got  his  head  into 
a  jug,  and  suddenly  finds  he  cannot  extricate  it.  "  Well 
met,  Sir,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  now  take  your  ground, 
and  abide  the  consequences  of  your  infernal  insinua- 
tions." "  Upon  my  word,"  replied  I,  —  "  upon  my  honor, 
Sir,"  —  and  there  I  stuck,  for  in  truth  I  knew  not  what 
it  was  I  was  going  to  say ;  when  the  stranger's  second, 
advancing,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which  I  immediately 
recognized,  "  Why,  zounds !  Rainbow,  are  you  the 
man  ?  "  "  Is  it  you,  Harman  ?  "  "  What !  "  continued 
he,  "  my  old  classmate  Rainbow  turned  slanderer  ?  Im- 
possible !  Indeed,  Mr.  Bub,  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take here."  "  None,  Sir,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  I  have  it 
on  the  authority  of  my  respectable  landlord,  that,  ever 
since  this  gentleman's  arrival,  he  has  been  incessant  in 
his  attempts  to  blacken  my  character  with  every  person 

at  the  inn."   "  Nay,  my  friend  "   But  I  put  an  end 

to  Harman's  further  defence  of  me,  by  taking  him  aside, 
and  frankly  confessing  the  whole  truth.    It  was  with 


190 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


some  difficulty  I  could  get  through  the  explanation, 
being  frequently  interrupted  with  bursts  of  laughter  from 
my  auditor ;  which,  indeed,  I  now  began  to  think  very 
natural.  In  a  word,  to  cut  the  story  short,  my  friend 
having  repeated  the  conference  verbatim  to  Mr.  Bub,  he 
was  good-natured  enough  to  join  in  the  mirth,  saying, 
with  one  of  his  best  sardonics,  he  "  had  always  had  a 
misgiving  that  his  unlucky  ugly  face  would  one  day  or 
other  be  the  death  of  somebody."  Well,  we  passed  the 
day  together,  and  having  cracked  a  social  bottle  after 
dinner,  parted,  I  believe,  as  heartily  friends  as  we  should 
have  been  (which  is  saying  a  great  deal)  had  he  indeed 
proved  the  favorite  villain  in  my  Novel.  But,  alas ! 
with  the  loss  of  my  villain,  away  went  the  Novel. 

Here  again  I  was  at  a  stand ;  and  in  vain  did  I  tor- 
ture my  brains  for  another  pursuit.  But  why  should  I 
seek  one  ?  In  fortune  I  have  a  competence,  —  why  not 
be  as  independent  in  mind  ?  There  are  thousands  in 
the  world  whose  sole  object  in  life  is  to  attain  the  means 
of  living  without  toil ;  and  what  is  any  literary  pursuit 
but  a  series  of  mental  labor,  ay,  and  oftentimes  more 
wearying  to  the  spirits  than  that  of  the  body.  Upon 
the  whole,  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  it  was  a  very 
foolish  thing  to  do  any  thing.  So  I  seriously  set  about 
trying  to  do  nothing. 

Well,  what  with  whistling,  hammering  down  all  the 
nails  in  the  house  that  had  started,  paring  my  nails, 
pulling  my  fire  to  pieces  and  rebuilding  it,  changing  my 
clothes  to  full  dress  though  I  dined  alone,  trying  to 
make  out  the  figure  of  a  Cupid  on  my  discolored  ceil- 
ing, and  thinking  of  a  lady  I  had  not  thought  of  for  ten 
years  before,  I  got  along  the  first  week  tolerably  well. 
But  by  the  middle  of  the  second  week,  —  't  was  horrible ! 
the  hours  seemed  to  roll  over  me  like  mill-stones.  When 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


191 


I  awoke  in  the  morning  I  felt  like  an  Indian  devotee, 
the  day  coming  upon  me  like  the  great  temple  of  Jug- 
gernaut ;  cracking  of  my  bones  beginning  after  break- 
fast ;  and  if  I  had  any  respite,  it  was  seldom  for  more 
than  half  an  hour,  when  a  newspaper  seemed  to  stop 
the  wheels;  —  then  away  they  went,  crack,  crack,  noon 
and  afternoon,  till  I  found  myself  by  night  reduced  to 
a  perfect  jelly,  —  good  for  nothing  but  to  be  ladled  into 
bed,  with  a  greater  horror  than  ever  at  the  thought  of 
sunrise. 

This  will  never  do,  said  I ;  a  toad  in  the  heart  of  a 
tree  lives  a  more  comfortable  life  than  a  nothing-doing 
man ;  and  I  began  to  perceive  a  very  deep  meaning  in 
the  truism  of  "  something  being  better  than  nothing." 
But  is  a  precise  object  always  necessary  to  the  mind? 
No  :  if  it  be  but  occupied,  no  matter  with  what.  That 
may  easily  be  done.  I  have  already  tried  the  sciences, 
and  made  abortive  attempts  in  literature,  but  I  have 
never  yet  tried  what  is  called  general  reading ;  —  that, 
thank  Heaven,  is  a  resource  inexhaustible.  I  will  hence- 
forth read  only  for  amusement.  My  first  experiment  in 
this  way  was  on  Voyages  and  Travels,  with  occasional 
dippings  into  Shipwrecks,  Murders,  and  Ghost-stories. 
It  succeeded  beyond  my  hopes ;  month  after  month 
passing  away  like  days,  and  as  for  days,  —  I  almost 
fancied  that  I  could  see  the  sun  move.  How  comforta- 
ble, thought  I,  thus  to  travel  over  the  world  in  my  closet! 
how  delightful  to  double  Cape  Horn  and  cross  the  Afri- 
can Desert  in  my  rocking-chair,  —  to  traverse  CafFraria 
and  the  Mogul's  dominions  in  the  same  pleasant  vehicle ! 
This  is  living  to  some  purpose ;  one  day  dining  on  bar- 
becued pigs  in  Otaheite ;  the  next  in  danger  of  perishing 
amidst  the  snows  of  Terra  del  Fuego ;  then  to  have  a 
lion  cross  my  path  in  the  heart  of  Africa ;  to  run  for  my 


192 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


life  from  a  wounded  rhinoceros,  and  sit,  by  mistake,  on 
a  sleeping  boa-constrictor ;  —  this,  this,  said  I,  is  life ! 
Even  the  dangers  of  the  sea  were  but  healthful  stimu- 
lants. If  I  met  with  a  tornado,  it  was  only  an  agreeable 
variety ;  water-spouts  and  ice-islands  gave  me  no  manner 
of  alarm ;  and  I  have  seldom  been  more  composed  than 
when  catching  a  whale.  In  short,  the  ease  with  which 
I  thus  circumnavigated  the  globe,  and  conversed  with 
all  its  varieties  of  inhabitants,  expanded  my  benevo- 
lence ;  I  found  every  place,  and  everybody  in  it,  even 
to  the  Hottentots,  vastly  agreeable.  But,  alas !  I  was 
doomed  to  discover  that  this  could  not  last  for  ever. 
Though  I  was  still  curious,  there  were  no  longer  curios- 
ities ;  for  the  world  is  limited,  and  new  countries,  and 
new  people,  like  every  thing  else,  wax  stale  on  acquaint- 
ance ;  even  ghosts  and  hurricanes  become  at  last  famil- 
iar ;  and  books  grow  old,  like  those  who  read  them. 

I  was  now  at  what  sailors  call  a  dead  lift ;  being  too 
old  to  build  castles  for  the  future,  and  too  dissatisfied 
with  the  life  I  had  led  to  look  back  on  the  past.  In  this 
state  of  mind,  I  bought  me  a  snuffbox ;  for,  as  I  could 
not  honestly  recommend  my  disjointed  self  to  any  de- 
cent woman,  it  seemed  a  kind  of  duty  in  me  to  contract 
such  habits  as  would  effectually  prevent  my  taking  in 
the  lady  I  had  once  thought  of.  I  set  to,  snuffing  away 
till  I  made  my  nose  sore,  and  lost  my  appetite.  I  then 
threw  my  snuffbox  into  the  fire,  and  took  to  cigars. 
This  change  appeared  to  revive  me.  For  a  short  time 
I  thought  myself  in  Elysium,  and  wondered  I  had  never 
tried  them  before.  Thou  fragrant  weed!  O,  that  I 
were  a  Dutch  poet,  I  exclaimed,  that  I  might  render  due 
honor  to  thy  unspeakable  virtues !  Ineffable  tobacco ! 
Every  puff  seemed  like  oil  poured  upon  troubled  waters, 
and  I  felt  an  inexpressible  calmness  stealing  over  my 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIA©;  193 

frame  ;  in  truth,  it  seemed  like  a  benevolent  spirit  recon- 
ciling my  soul  to  my  body.  But  moderation,  as  I  have 
before  said,  was  never  one  of  my  virtues.  I  walked  my 
room,  pouring  out  volumes  like  a  moving  glass-house. 
My  apartment  was  soon  filled  with  smoke ;  I  looked  in 
the  glass  and  hardly  knew  myself,  my  eyes  peering  at 
me,  through,  the  curling  atmosphere,  like  those  of  a  poo- 
dle. I  then  retired  to  the  opposite  end,  and  surveyed 
the  furniture ;  nothing  retained  its  original  form  or  po- 
sition ;  — -  the  tables  and  chairs  seemed  to  loom  from  the 
floor,  and  my  grandfather's  picture  to  thrust  forward  its 
nose  like  a  French-horn,  while  that  of  my  grandmother, 
who  was  reckoned  a  beauty  in  her  day,  looked,  in  her 
hoop,  like  her  husband's  wig-block  stuck  on  a  tub. 
Whether  this  was  a  signal  for  the  fiends  within  me  to 
begin  their  operations,  I  know  not ;  but  from  that  day  I 
began  to  be  what  is  called  nervous.  The  uninterrupted 
health  I  had  hitherto  enjoyed  now  seemed  the  greatest 
curse  that  could  have  befallen  me.  I  had  never  had  the 
usual  itinerant  distempers ;  it  was  very  unlikely  that  I 
should  always  escape  them  ;  and  the  dread  of  their  com- 
ing upon  me  in  my  advanced  age  made  me  perfectly 
miserable.  I  scarcely  dared  to  stir  abroad ;  had  sand- 
bags put  to  my  doors  to  keep  out  the  measles ;  forbade 
my  neighbours'  children  playing  in  my  yard  to  avoid 
the  whooping-cough ;  and,  to  prevent  infection  from  the 
small-pox,  I  ordered  all  my  male  servants'  heads  to  be 
shaved,  made  the  coachman  and  footman  wear  tow 
wigs,  and  had  them  both  regularly  smoked  whenever 
they  returned  from  the  neighbouring  town,  before  they 
were  allowed  to  enter  my  presence.  Nor  were  these  all 
my  miseries ;  in  fact,  they  were  but  a  sort  of  running 
base  to  a  thousand  other  strange  and  frightful  fancies ; 
the  mere  skeleton  to  a  whole  bodv-corporate  of  horrors. 
17 


194 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


I  became  dreamy,  was  haunted  by  what  I  had  read, 
frequently  finding  a  Hottentot,  or  a  boa-constrictor,  in 
my  bed.  Sometimes  I  fancied  myself  buried  in  one  of 
the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  breaking  my  shins  against  the 
bones  of  a  sacred  cow.  Then  I  thought  myself  a  kan- 
garoo, unable  to  move  because  somebody  had  cut  off 
my  tail. 

In  this  miserable  state  I  one  evening  rushed  out  of 
my  house.  I  know  not  how  far,  or  how  long,  I  had 
been  from  home,  when,  hearing  a  well-known  voice,  I 
suddenly  stopped.  It  seemed  to  belong  to  a  face  that  I 
knew ;  yet  how  I  should  know  it  somewhat  puzzled 
me,  being  then  fully  persuaded  that  I  was  a  Chinese 
Josh.  My  friend  (as  I  afterwards  learned  he  was)  in- 
vited me  to  go  to  his  club.  This,  thought  I,  is  one  of 
my  worshippers,  and  they  have  a  right  to  carry  me 
wherever  they  please  ;  accordingly  I  suffered  myself  to 
be  led. 

I  soon  found  myself  in  an  American  tavern,  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  dozen  grave  gentlemen  who  were  empty- 
ing a  large  bowl  of  punch.  They  each  saluted  me,  some 
calling  me  by  name,  others  saying  they  were  happy  to 
make  my  acquaintance  ;  but  what  appeared  quite  un- 
accountable was  my  not  only  understanding  their  lan- 
guage, but  knowing  it  to  be  English.  A  kind  of  reac- 
tion now  began  to  take  place  in  my  brain.  Perhaps, 
said  I,  I  am  not  a  Josh.  I  was  urged  to  pledge  my 
friend  in  a  glass  of  punch ;  I  did  so ;  my  friend's  friend, 
and  his  friend,  and  all  the  rest,  in  succession,  begged  to 
have  the  same  honor;  I  complied,  again  and  again, 
till  at  last,  the  punch  having  fairly  turned  my  head 
topsy-turvy,  righted  my  understanding;  and  I  found 
myself  myself. 

This  happy  change  gave  a  pleasant  fillip  to  my  spir- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  195 

its.  I  returned  home,  found  no  monster  in  my  bed,  and 
slept  quietly  till  near  noon  the  next  day.  I  arose  with 
a  slight  headache  and  a  great  admiration  of  punch ;  re- 
solving, if  I  did  not  catch  the  measles  from  my  late  ad- 
venture, to  make  a  second  visit  to  the  club.  No  symp- 
toms appearing,  I  went  again ;  and  my  reception  was 
such  as  led  to  a  third,  and  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth  visit, 
when  I  became  a  regular  member.  I  believe  my  induce- 
ment to  this  was  a  certain  unintelligible  something  in 
three  or  four  of  my  new  associates,  which  at  once  grati- 
fied and  kept  alive  my  curiosity,  in  their  letting  out  just 
enough  of  themselves  while  I  was  with  them  to  excite 
me  when  alone  to  speculate  on  what  was  kept  back. 
I  wondered  I  had  never  met  with  such  characters  in 
books ;  and  the  kind  of  interest  they  awakened  began 
gradually  to  widen  to  others.  Henceforth  I  will  live  in 
the  world,  said  I;  't  is  my  only  remedy.  A  man's  own 
affairs  are  soon  conned  ;  he  gets  them  by  heart  till  they 
haunt  him  when  he  would  be  rid  of  them ;  but  those  of 
another  can  be  known  only  in  part,  while  that  which 
remains  unrevealed  is  a  never-ending  stimulus  to  curi- 
osity. The  only  natural  mode,  therefore,  of  preventing 
the  mind  preying  on  itself,  —  the  only  rational,  because 
the  only  interminable  employment,  —  is  to  be  busy 
about  other  people's  business. 

The  variety  of  objects  which  this  new  course  of  life 
each  day  presented,  brought  me  at  length  to  a  state  of 
sanity ;  at  least,  I  was  no  longer  disposed  to  conjure 
up  remote  dangers  to  my  door,  or  chew  the  cud  on  my 
indigested  past  reading;  though  sometimes,  I  confess, 
when  I  have  been  tempted  to  meddle  with  a  very  bad 
character,  I  have  invariably  been  threatened  with  a  re- 
lapse; which  leads  me  to  think  the  existence  of  some 
secret  affinity  between  rogues  and  boa-constrictors  is  not 


196 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


unlikely.  In  a  short  time,  however,  I  had  every  reason 
to  believe  myself  completely  cured ;  for  the  days  began 
to  appear  of  their  natural  length,  and  I  no  longer  saw 
every  thing  through  a  pair  of  blue  spectacles,  but  found 
nature  diversified  by  a  thousand  beautiful  colors,  and 
the  people  about  me  a  thousand  times  more  interesting 
than  hyenas  or  Hottentots.  The  world  is  now  my  only 
study,  and  I  trust  I  shall  stick  to  it  for  the  sake  of  my 
health. 


POEMS. 


17 


THE  SYLPHS  OF  THE  SEASONS, 


A  POET'S  DREAM. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

As  it  may  be  objected  to  the  following  poem,  that  some  of 
the  images  there  introduced  are  not  wholly  peculiar  to  the  Sea- 
son described,  the  author  begs  leave  to  state,  that,  both  in  their 
selection  and  disposition,  he  was  guided  by  that,  which,  in  his 
limited  experience,  was  found  to  be  the  Season  of  their  great- 
est impression  ;  and,  though  he  has  not  always  felt  the  necessi- 
ty of  pointing  out  the  collateral  causes  by  which  the  effect  was 
increased,  he  yet  flatters  himself  that,  in  general,  they  are 
sufficiently  implied  either  by  what  follows  or  precedes  them. 
Thus,  for  instance,  the  running  brook,  though  by  no  means 
peculiar,  is  appropriated  to  Spring ;  as  affording  by  its  motion 
and  seeming  exultation  one  of  the  most  lively  images  of  that 
spirit  of  renovation  which  animates  the  earth  after  its  temporary 
suspension  during  the  Winter.  By  the  same  rule  is  assigned  to 
Summer  the  placid  lake,  &c,  not  because  that  image  is  never 
seen,  or  enjoyed,  at  any  other  season  ;  but  on  account  of  its 
affecting  us  more  in  Summer,  than  either  in  the  Spring,  or  in 


200 


THE   SYLPHS   OF  THE  SEASONS. 


Autumn  ;  the  indolence  and  languor  generally  then  experi- 
enced disposing  us  to  dwell  with  particular  delight  on  such  an 
object  of  repose,  not  to  mention  the  grateful  idea  of  coolness 
derived  from  a  knowledge  of  its  temperature.  Thus,  also,  the 
evening  cloud,  exhibiting  a  fleeting  representation  of  successive 
objects,  is,  perhaps,  justly  appropriated  to  Autumn,  as  in  that 
season  the  general  decay  of  inanimate  nature  leads  the  mind 
to  turn  upon  itself,  and  without  effort  to  apply  almost  every 
image  of  sense,  or  vision  of  the  imagination,  to  its  own  transi- 
tory state. 

If  the  above  be  admitted,  it  is  needless  to  add  more  ;  if  it  be 
not,  it  would  be  useless. 


Long  has  it  been  my  fate  to  hear 
The  slave  of  Mammon,  with  a  sneer, 

My  indolence  reprove. 
Ah,  little  knows  he  of  the  care, 
The  toil,  the  hardship,  that  I  bear, 
While  lolling  in  my  elbow-chair, 

And  seeming  scarce  to  move ! 

For,  mounted  on  the  Poet's  steed, 
I  there  my  ceaseless  journey  speed 

O'er  mountain,  wood,  and  stream; 
And  oft  within  a  little  day 
'Mid  comets  fierce 't  is  mine  to  stray, 
And  wander  o'er  the  Milky-way, 

To  catch  a  Poet's  dream. 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 

But,  would  the  Man  of  Lucre  know 
What  riches  from  my  labors  flow, 

A  Dream  is  my  reply. 
And  who  for  wealth  has  ever  pined, 
That  had  a  World  within  his  mind, 
Where  every  treasure  he  may  find, 

And  joys  that  never  die  ? 

One  night,  my  task  diurnal  done, 
(For  I  had  travelled  with  the  Sun 

O'er  burning  sands,  o'er  snows,) 
Fatigued,  I  sought  the  couch  of  rest; 
My  wonted  prayer  to  Heaven  addressed ; 
But  scarce  had  I  my  pillow  pressed, 

When  thus  a  vision  rose. 

Methought  within  a  desert  cave, 
Cold,  dark,  and  solemn  as  the  grave, 

I  suddenly  awoke. 
It  seemed  of  sable  Night  the  cell, 
Where,  save  when  from  the  ceiling  fell 
An  oozing  drop,  her  silent  spell 

No  sound  had  ever  broke. 

There  motionless  I  stood  alone, 
Like  some  strange  monument  of  stone 

Upon  a  barren  wild ; 
Or  like  (so  solid  and  profound 
The  darkness  seemed  that  walled  me  round) 
A  man  that 's  buried  under  ground, 

Where  pyramids  are  piled. 


202 


THE  SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


Thus  fixed,  a  dreadful  hour  I  past ; 
And  now  I  heard,  as  from  a  blast, 

A  voice  pronounce  my  name  : 
Nor  long  upon  my  ear  it  dwelt, 
When  round  me  'gan  the  air  to  melt, 
And  motion  once  again  I  felt 

Quick  circling  o'er  my  frame. 

Again  it  called  ;  and  then  a  ray, 
That  seemed  a  gushing  fount  of  day, 

Across  the  cavern  streamed. 
Half  struck  with  terror  and  delight, 
I  hailed  the  little,  blessed  light, 
And  followed  till  my  aching  sight 

An  orb  of  darkness  seemed. 

Nor  long  I  felt  the  blinding  pain  ; 
For  soon  upon  a  mountain  plain 

I  gazed  with  wonder  new. 
There  high  a  castle  reared  its  head  ; 
And  far  below  a  region  spread, 
Where  every  Season  seemed  to  shed 

Its  own  peculiar  hue. 

Now  at  the  castle's  massy  gate, 
Like  one  that 's  blindly  urged  by  fate, 

A  bugle-horn  I  blew. 
The  mountain-plain  it  shook  around, 
The  vales  returned  a  hollow  sound, 
And,  moving  with  a  sigh  profound, 

The  portals  open  flew. 


THE  SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


203 


Then  entering,  from  a  glittering  hall 
I  heard  a  voice  seraphic  call, 

That  bade  me,  "  Ever  reign  !  " 
"  All  hail!  "  it  said,  in  accent  wild, 
"  For  thou  art  Nature's  chosen  child, 
Whom  wealth  nor  blood  has  e'er  denied ; 

Hail,  Lord  of  this  Domain !  " 

And  now  I  paced  a  bright  saloon, 
That  seemed  illumined  by  the  moon, 

So  mellow  was  the  light. 
The  walls  with  jetty  darkness  teemed, 
"While  down  them  crystal  columns  streamed, 
And  each  a  mountain  torrent  seemed, 

High-flashing  through  the  night. 

Reared  in  the  midst,  a  double  throne 
Like  burnished  cloud  of  evening  shone ; 

While,  grouped  the  base  around, 
Four  Damsels  stood  of  Faery  race  ; 
Who,  turning  each  with  heavenly  grace 
Upon  me  her  immortal  face, 

Transfixed  me  to  the  ground. 

And  thus  the  foremost  of  the  train :  — 
"  Be  thine  the  throne,  and  thine  to  reign 

O'er  all  the  varying  year ! 
But,  ere  thou  rul'st,  the  Fates  command, 
That  of  our  chosen  rival  band 
A  Sylph  shall  win  thy  heart  and  hand, 

Thy  sovereignty  to  share. 


204 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  For  we,  the  sisters  of  a  birth, 
Do  rule  by  turns  the  subject  earth, 

To  serve  ungrateful  man  ; 
But,  since  our  varied  toils  impart 
No  joy  to  his  capricious  heart, 
'T  is  now  ordained  that  human  art 

Shall  rectify  the  plan." 

Then  spake  the  Sylph  of  Spring  serene :  — 
"  'T  is  I  thy  joyous  heart,  I  ween, 

With  sympathy  shall  move ; 
For  I  with  living  melody 
Of  birds,  in  choral  symphony, 
First  waked  thy  soul  to  poesy, 

To  piety  and  love. 

"  "When  thou,  at  call  of  vernal  breeze, 
And  beckoning  bough  of  budding  trees, 

Hast  left  thy  sullen  fire, 
And  stretched  thee  in  some  mossy  dell, 
And  heard  the  browsing  wether's  bell, 
Blithe  echoes  rousing  from  their  cell 

To  swell  the  tinkling  choir  : 

"  Or  heard  from  branch  of  flowering  thorn 
The  song  of  friendly  cuckoo  warn 

The  tardy-moving  swain ; 
Hast  bid  the  purple  swallow  hail, 
And  seen  him  now  through  ether  sail, 
Now  sweeping  downward  o'er  the  vale, 

And  skimming  now  the  plain ; 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


205 


"  Then,  catching  with  a  sudden  glance 
The  bright  and  silver-clear  expanse 

Of  some  broad  river's  stream, 
Beheld  the  boats  adown  it  glide, 
And  motion  wind  again  the  tide, 
Where,  chained  in  ice  by  Winter's  pride, 

Late  rolled  the  heavy  team : 

"  Or,  lured  by  some  fresh-scented  gale, 
That  wooed  the  moored  fisher's  sail 

To  tempt  the  mighty  main, 
Hast  watched  the  dim,  receding  shore, 
Now  faintly  seen  the  ocean  o'er, 
Like  hanging  cloud,  and  now  no  more 

To  bound  the  sapphire  plain ; 

"  Then,  wrapt  in  night,  the  scudding  bark, 
(That  seemed,  self-poised  amid  the  dark, 

Through  upper  air  to  leap,) 
Beheld,  from  thy  most  fearful  height, 
The  rapid  dolphin's  azure  light 
Cleave,  like  a  living  meteor  bright, 

The  darkness  of  the  deep  :  — 

"  'T  was  mine  the  warm,  awakening  hand, 
That  made  thy  grateful  heart  expand, 

And  feel  the  high  control 
Of  Him,  the  mighty  Power,  that  moves 
Amid  the  waters  and  the  groves, 
And  through  his  vast  creation  proves 

His  omnipresent  soul. 
18 


THE  SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 

"  Or,  brooding  o'er  some  forest  rill, 
Fringed  with  the  early  daffodil 

And  quivering  maiden-hair, 
When  thou  hast  marked  the  dusky  bed, 
With  leaves  and  water-rust  o'erspread, 
That  seemed  an  amber  light  to  shed 

On  all  was  shadowed  there  ; 

"  And  thence,  as  by  its  murmur  called, 
The  current  traced  to  where  it  brawled 

Beneath  the  noontide  ray, 
And  there  beheld  the  checkered  shade 
Of  waves,  in  many  a  sinuous  braid, 
That  o'er  the  sunny  channel  played, 

With  motion  ever  gay : 

"  'T  was  I  to  these  the  magic  gave, 
That  made  thy  heart,  a  willing  slave, 

To  gentle  Nature  bend, 
And  taught  thee  how,  with  tree  and  flower, 
And  whispering  gale,  and  dropping  shower, 
In  converse  sweet  to  pass  the  hour, 

As  with  an  early  friend ; 

"  That  'mid  the  noontide,  sunny  haze 
Did  in  thy  languid  bosom  raise 

The  raptures  of  the  boy, 
When,  waked  as  if  to  second  birth, 
Thy  soul  through  every  pore  looked  forth, 
And  gazed  upon  the  beauteous  Earth 

With  myriad  eyes  of  joy ; 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


207 


"  That  made  thy  heart,  like  His  above, 
To  flow  with  universal  love 

For  every  living  thing. 
And,  O !  if  I,  with  ray  divine, 
Thus  tempering,  did  thy  soul  refine, 
Then  let  thy  gentle  heart  be  mine, 

And  bless  the  Sylph  of  Spring." 

And  next  the  Sylph  of  Summer  fair, 
The  while  her  crisped,  golden  hair 

Half  veiled  her  sunny  eyes :  — 
"  Nor  less  may  I  thy  homage  claim, 
At  touch  of  whose  exhaling  flame 
The  fog  of  Spring,  that  chilled  thy  frame, 

In  genial  vapor  flies. 

"  Oft  by  the  heat  of  noon  oppressed, 
With  flowing  hair  and  open  vest, 

Thy  footsteps  have  I  won 
To  mossy  couch  of  welling  grot, 
Where  thou  hast  blessed  thy  happy  lot, 
That  thou  in  that  delicious  spot 

Mayst  see,  not  feel,  the  sun : 

u  Thence  tracing  from  the  body's  change, 
In  curious  philosophic  range, 

The  motion  of  the  mind ; 
And  how  from  thought  to  thought  it  flew, 
Still  hoping  in  each  vision  new 
The  faery  land  of  bliss  to  view, 

But  ne'er  that  land  to  find. 


208 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  And  then,  as  grew  thy  languid  mood, 
To  some  embowering,  silent  wood 

I  led  thy  careless  way  ; 
Where  high,  from  tree  to  tree,  in  air 
Thou  saw'st  the  spider  swing  her  snare, 
So  bright !  —  as  if,  entangled  there, 

The  sun  had  left  a  ray : 

"  Or  lured  thee  to  some  beetling  steep, 
To  mark  the  deep  and  quiet  sleep  ; 

That  wrapt  the  tarn  below ; 
And  mountain  blue  and  forest  green 
Inverted  on  its  plane  serene, 
Dim  gleaming  through  the  filmy  sheen 

That  glazed  the  painted  show ; 

"  Perchance,  to  mark  the  fisher's  skiff 
Swift  from  beneath  some  shadowy  cliff 

Dart,  like  a  gust  of  wind ; 
And,  as  she  skimmed  the  sunny  lake, 
In  many  a  playful  wreath  her  wake 
Far  trailing,  like  a  silvery  snake, 

With  sinuous  length  behind. 

"  Not  less,  when  hill  and  dale  and  heath 
Still  Evening  wrapt  in  mimic  death, 

Thy  spirit  true  I  proved : 
Around  thee,  as  the  darkness  stole, 
Before  thy  wild,  creative  soul 
I  bade  each  faery  vision  roll, 

Thine  infancy  had  loved. 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


209 


"  Then  o'er  the  silent,  sleeping  land, 
Thy  fancy,  like  a  magic  wand, 

Forth  called  the  Elfin  race  : 
And  now  around  the  fountain's  brim 
In  circling  dance  they  gayly  skim, 
And  now  upon  its  surface  swim, 

And  water-spiders  chase ; 

"  Each  circumstance  of  sight  or  sound 
Peopling  the  vacant  air  around 

With  visionary  life : 
For,  if  amid  a  thicket  stirred 
Or  flitting  bat,  or  wakeful  bird, 
Then  straight  thy  eager  fancy  heard 

The  din  of  Faery  strife ; 

"  Now,  in  the  passing  beetle's  hum, 
The  Elfin  army's  goblin  drum 

To  pigmy  battle  sound  ; 
And  now,  where  dripping  dew-drops  plash 
On  waving  grass,  their  bucklers  clash, 
And  now  their  quivering  lances  flash, 

Wide  dealing  death  around : 

"  Or,  if  the  moon's  effulgent  form 
The  passing  clouds  of  sudden  storm 

In  quick  succession  veil, 
Vast  serpents  now  their  shadows  glide, 
And,  coursing  now  the  mountain's  side, 
A  band  of  giants  huge  they  stride 

O'er  hill,  and  wood,  and  dale. 
18* 


210 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  And  still  on  many  a  service  rare 
Could  I  descant,  if  need  there  were, 

My  firmer  claim  to  bind  ; 
But  rest  I  most  my  high  pretence 
On  that  my  genial  influence, 
Which  made  the  body's  indolence 

The  vigor  of  the  mind." 

And  now,  in  accents  deep  and  low, 
Like  voice  of  fondly-cherished  woe, 

The  Sylph  of  Autumn  sad :  — 
"  Though  /  may  not  of  raptures  sing, 
That  graced  the  gentle  song  of  Spring, 
Like  Summer,  playful  pleasures  bring, 

Thy  youthful  heart  to  glad ; 

"  Yet  still  may  I  in  hope  aspire 
Thy  heart  to  touch  with  chaster  fire, 

And  purifying  love : 
For  I  with  vision  high  and  holy, 
And  spell  of  quickening  melancholy, 
Thy  soul  from  sublunary  folly 

First  raised  to  worlds  above. 

"  What  though  be  mine  the  treasures  fair 
Of  purple  grape,  and  yellow  pear, 

And  fruits  of  various  hue, 
And  harvests  rich  of  golden  grain, 
That  dance  in  waves  along  the  plain 
To  merry  song  of  reaping  swain, 

Beneath  the  welkin  blue? 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


211 


"  With  these  I  may  not  urge  my  suit, 
Of  Summer's  patient  toil  the  fruit,-— 

For  mortal  purpose  given  : 
Nor  may  it  fit  my  sober  mood 
To  sing  of  sweetly  murmuring  flood, 
Or  dyes  of  many-colored  wood, 

That  mock  the  bow  of  heaven. 

"  But,  know,  't  was  mine  the  secret  power 
That  waked  thee  at  the  midnight  hour 

In  bleak  November's  reign  : 
'T  was  I  the  spell  around  thee  cast, 
When  thou  didst  hear  the  hollow  blast 
In  murmurs  tell  of  pleasures  past, 

That  ne'er  would  come  again : 

"  And  led  thee,  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
To  hear  the  sullen  ocean  roar, 

By  dreadful  calm  oppressed ; 
Which  still,  though  not  a  breeze  was  there, 
Its  mountain-billows  heaved  in  air, 
As  if  a  living  thing  it  were. 

That  strove  in  vain  for  rest. 

"  'T  was  I,  when  thou,  subdued  by  woe. 
Didst  watch  the  leaves  descending  slow, 

To  each  a  moral  gave ; 
And,  as  they  moved  in  mournful  train, 
With  rustling  sound,  along  the  plain, 
Taught  them  to  sing  a  seraph's  strain 

Of  peace  within  the  grave. 


212 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  And  then,  upraised  thy  streaming  eye, 
1  met  thee  in  the  western  sky 

In  pomp  of  evening  cloud, 
That,  while  with  varying  form  it  rolled, 
Some  wizard's  castle  seemed  of  gold, 
And  now  a  crimsoned  knight  of  old, 

Or  king  in  purple  proud. 

"  And  last,  as  sunk  the  setting  sun, 
And  Evening  with  her  shadows  dun 

The  gorgeous  pageant  past, 
'T  was  then  of  life  a  mimic  show, 
Of  human  grandeur  here  below, 
Which  thus  beneath  the  fatal  blow 

Of  Death  must  fall  at  last. 

"  O,  then  with  what  aspiring  gaze 
Didst  thou  thy  tranced  vision  raise 

To  yonder  orbs  on  high, 
And  think  how  wondrous,  how  sublime, 
'T  were  upwards  to  their  spheres  to  climb, 
And  live  beyond  the  reach  of  Time, 

Child  of  Eternity  !  " 

And  last  the  Sylph  of  Winter  spake, 
The  while  her  piercing  voice  did  shake 

The  castle-vaults  below  :  — 
"  O  youth,  if  thou,  with  soul  refined, 
Hast  felt  the  triumph  pure  of  mind, 
And  learnt  a  secret  joy  to  find 

In  deepest  scenes  of  woe ; 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS, 


213 


"  If  e'er  with  fearful  ear  at  eve 

Hast  heard  the  wailing  tempests  grieve 

Through  chink  of  shattered  wall, 
The  while  it  conjured  o'er  thy  brain 
Of  wandering  ghosts  a  mournful  train, 
That  low  in  fitful  sobs  complain 

Of  Death's  untimely  call ; 

u  Or  feeling,  as  the  storm  increased, 
The  love  of  terror  nerve  thy  breast, 

Didst  venture  to  the  coast, 
To  see  the  mighty  war-ship  leap 
From  wave  to  wave  upon  the  deep, 
Like  chamois  goat  from  steep  to  steep, 

Till  low  in  valley  lost ; 

"  Then,  glancing  to  the  angry  sky, 
Behold  the  clouds  with  fury  fly 

The  lurid  moon  athwart, — 
Like  armies  huge  in  battle,  throng, 
And  pour  in  volleying  ranks  along, 
While  piping  winds  in  martial  song 

To  rushing  war  exhort : 

"  O,  then  to  me  thy  heart  be  given, 
To  me,  ordained  by  Him  in  heaven 

Thy  nobler  powers  to  wake. 
And,  O !  if  thou  with  poet's  soul, 
High  brooding  o'er  the  frozen  pole, 
Hast  felt  beneath  my  stern  control 

The  desert  region  quake  ; 


214 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  Or  from  old  Hecla's  cloudy  height, 
When  o'er  the  dismal,  half-year's  night 

He  pours  his  sulphurous  breath, 
Hast  known  my  petrifying  wind 
Wild  ocean's  curling  billows  bind, 
Like  bending  sheaves  by  harvest  hind, 

Erect  in  icy  death  ; 

"  Or  heard  adown  the  mountain's  steep 
The  northern  blast  with  furious  sweep 

Some  cliff  dissevered  dash, 
And  seen  it  spring  with  dreadful  bound. 
From  rock  to  rock,  to  gulf  profound, 
While  echoes  fierce  from  caves  resound 

The  never-ending  crash : 

"  If  thus  with  terror's  mighty  spell 
Thy  soul  inspired  was  wont  to  swell, 

Thy  heaving  frame  expand, 
O,  then  to  me  thy  heart  incline ; 
For  know,  the  wondrous  charm  was  mine, 
That  fear  and  joy  did  thus  combine 

In  magic  union  bland. 

"  Nor  think  confined  my  native  sphere 
To  horrors  gaunt,  or  ghastly  fear, 

Or  desolation  wild ; 
For  I  of  pleasures  fair  could  sing, 
That  steal  from  life  its  sharpest  sting, 
And  man  have  made  around  it  cling, 

Like  mother  to  her  child. 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


215 


"  When  thou,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky, 
So  calm  no  cloud  was  seen  to  fly, 

Hast  gazed  on  snowy  plain, 
Where  Nature  slept  so  pure  and  sweet, 
She  seemed  a  corse  in  winding-sheet, 
Whose  happy  soul  had  gone  to  meet 

The  blest  Angelic  train  ; 

"  Or  marked  the  sun's  declining  ray 
In  thousand  varying  colors  play 

O'er  ice-incrusted  heath, 
In  gleams  of  orange  now,  and  green, 
And  now  in  red  and  azure  sheen, 
Like  hues  on  dying  dolphin  seen, 

Most  lovely  when  in  death  ; 

"  Or  seen  at  dawn  of  eastern  light 
The  frosty  toil  of  Fays  by  night 

On  pane  of  casement  clear, 
Where  bright  the  mimic  glaciers  shine, 
And  Alps,  with  many  a  mountain  pine, 
And  armed  knights  from  Palestine 

In  winding  march  appear  : 

"  'T  was  I  on  each  enchanting  scene 

The  charm  bestowed,  that  banished  spleen 

Thy  bosom  pure  and  light. 
But  still  a  nobler  power  I  claim,  — 
That  power  allied  to  poet's  fame, 
Which  language  vain  has  dared  to  name,  — 

The  soul's  creative  might. 


216 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


"  Though  Autumn  grave,  and  Summer  fair, 
And  joyous  Spring,  demand  a  share 

Of  Fancy's  hallowed  power, 
Yet  these  I  hold  of  humbler  kind, 
To  grosser  means  of  earth  confined, 
Through  mortal  sense  to  reach  the  mind, 

By  mountain,  stream,  or  flower. 

"  But  mine,  of  purer  nature  still, 
Is  that  which  to  thy  secret  will 

Did  minister  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unheard,  when  every  sense 
Did  sleep  in  drowsy  indolence, 
And  silence  deep  and  night  intense 

Enshrouded  every  scene ; 

"  That  o'er  thy  teeming  brain  did  raise 
The  spirits  of  departed  days  * 

Through  all  the  varying  year, 
And  images  of  things  remote, 
And  sounds  that  long  had  ceased  to  float, 
With  every  hue,  and  every  note, 

As  living  now  they  were ; 

"  And  taught  thee  from  the  motley  mass 
Each  harmonizing  part  to  class 

(Like  Nature's  self  employed) ; 

*  In  a  late  beautiful  poem  by  Mr.  Montgomery  is  the  following  line:  — 
"  The  spirits  of  departed  hours"  The  author,  fearing  that  so  singular  a 
coincidence  of  thought  and  language  might  subject  him  to  the  charge  of 
plagiarism,  thinks  it  necessary  to  state  that  his  poem  was  written  long  be- 
fore he  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  Mr.  Montgomery's. 


THE   SYLPHS   OF   THE  SEASONS. 


217 


And  then,  as  worked  thy  wayward  will, 
From  these,  with  rare  combining  skill, 
With  new-created  worlds  to  fill 
Of  space  the  mighty  void. 

"  O,  then  to  me  thy  heart  incline  ; 
To  me,  whose  plastic  powers  combine 

The  harvest  of  the  mind ; 
To  me  whose  magic  coffers  bear 
The  spoils  of  all  the  toiling  year, 
That  still  in  mental  vision  wear 

A  lustre  more  refined." 

She  ceased.  And  now,  in  doubtful  mood, 
All  motionless  and  mute  I  stood, 

Like  one  by  charm  oppressed : 
By  turns  from  each  to  each  I  roved, 
And  each  by  turns  again  I  loved ; 
For  ages  ne'er  could  one  have  proved 

More  lovely  than  the  rest. 

"  O  blessed  band,  of  birth  divine, 
What  mortal  task  is  like  to  mine  ?  "  — * 

And  further  had  I  spoke, 
When,  lo!  there  poured  a  flood  of  light 
So  fiercely  on  my  aching  sight, 
I  fell  beneath  the  vision  bright, 

And  with  the  pain  awoke. 

19 


218 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS, 

A  TALE. 


Say  why  in  every  work  of  man 
Some  imperfection  mars  the  plan  ? 
"Why  joined  in  every  human  art 
A  perfect  and  imperfect  part  ? 
Is  it  that  life  for  art  is  short  ? 
Or  is  it  Nature's  cruel  sport  ? 
Or  would  she  thus  a  moral  teach, 
That  man  should  see,  but  never  reacn, 
The  height  of  excellence,  and  show 
The  vanity  of  works  below  ? 
Or  consequence  of  Pride,  or  Sloth  ? 
Or  rather  the  effect  of  both  ? 
"Whoe'er  on  life  his  eye  has  cast, 
I  fear,  alas !  will  say  the  last. 

Once  on  a  time  in  Charon's  wherry 
Two  Painters  met,  on  Styx's  ferry. 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


219 


"  Good  Sir,"  said  one,  with  bow  profound, 

"  I  joy  to  meet  thee  under  ground  ; 

And,  though  with  zealous  spite  we  strove 

To  blast  each  other's  fame  above, 

Yet  here,  as  neither  bay  nor  laurel 

Can  tempt  us  to  prolong  our  quarrel, 

I  hope  the  hand  which  I  extend 

Will  meet  the  welcome  of  a  friend." 

"  Sweet  Sir,"  replied  the  other  Shade, 

While  scorn  on  either  nostril  played, 

"  Thy  proffered  love  were  great  and  kind, 

Could  I  in  thee  a  rival  find." 

"  A  rival,  Sir !  "  returned  the  first, 

Ready  with  rising  wind  to  burst, 

"  Thy  meekness,  sure,  in  this  I  see ; 

We  are  not  rivals,  I  agree : 

And  therefore  am  I  more  inclined 

To  cherish  one  of  humble  mind, 

Who  apprehends  that  one  above  him 

Can  never  condescend  to  love  him." 

Nor  longer  did  their  courteous  guile, 
Like  serpent,  twisting  through  a  smile, 
Each  other  sting  in  civil  phrase, 
And  poison  with  envenomed  praise ; 
For  now  the  fiend  of  anger  rose, 
Distending  each  death-withered  nose, 
And,  rolling  fierce,  each  glassy  eye, 
Like  owlet's  at  the  noonday  sky, 
Such  flaming  volleys  poured  of  ire 
As  set  old  Charon's  phlegm  on  fire. 
"  Peace  !  peace  !  "  the  grisly  boatman  cried, 
"  You  drown  the  roar  of  Styx's  tide. 


220 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


Unmannered  ghosts  !  if  such  your  strife, 

'T  were  better  you  were  still  in  life ! 

If  passions  such  as  these  you  show, 

You  '11  make  another  Earth  below ; 

Which,  sure,  would  be  a  viler  birth, 

Than  if  we  made  a  Hell  on  Earth." 

At  which  in  loud  defensive  strain 

'Gan  speak  the  angry  Shades  again. 

"  I  '11  hear  no  more!"  cried  he.  "  No  more!" 

In  echoes  hoarse,  returned  the  shore. 

"  To  Minos'  court  you  soon  shall  hie, 

( Chief  Justice  here)  ;  't  is  he  will  try 

Your  jealous  cause,  and  prove  at  once 

That  only  dunce  can  hate  a  dunce." 

Thus  checked,  in  sullen  mood  they  sped, 
Nor  more  on  either  side  was  said ; 
Nor  aught  the  dismal  silence  broke, 
Save  only  when  the  boatman's  stroke 
Deep-whizzing  through  the  wave  was  heard, 
And  now  and  then  a  spectre-bird, 
Low-cowering,  with  a  hungry  scream, 
For  spectre-fishes  in  the  stream. 

Now  midway  passed,  the  creaking  oar 
Is  heard  upon  the  fronting  shore ; 
Where,  thronging  round  in  many  a  band, 
The  curious  ghosts  beset  the  strand. 
Now  suddenly  the  boat  they  spy, 
Like  gull  diminished  in  the  sky ; 
And  now,  like  cloud  of  dusky  white, 
Slow  sailing  o'er  the  deep  of  night, 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


221 


The  sheeted  group  within  the  bark 
Is  seen  amid  the  billows  dark. 
Anon  the  keel,  with  grating  sound, 
They  hear  upon  the  pebbly  ground, 
And  now,  with  kind,  officious  hand, 
They  help  the  ghostly  crew  to  land. 

u  What  news  ?  "  they  cried  with  one  accord. 
"  I  pray  you,"  said  a  noble  lord, 
"  Tell  me  if  in  the  world  above 
I  still  retain  the  people's  love ; 
Or  whether  they,  like  us  below, 
The  motives  of  a  Patriot  know." 
"  And  me  inform,"  another  said, 
"  What  think  they  of  a  Buck  that 's  dead  ? 
Have  they  discerned,  that,  being  dull, 
I  knocked  my  wit  from  watchman's  skull  ?  " 
"And  me,"  cried  one,  of  knotty  front, 
With  many  a  scar  of  pride  upon 't, 
"  Resolve  me  if  the  world  opine 
Philosophers  are  still  divine  ; 
That,  having  hearts  for  friends  too  small, 
Or,  rather,  having  none  at  all, 
Professed  to  love,  with  saving  grace, 
The  abstract  of  the  human  race." 
"And  I,"  exclaimed  a  fourth,  "  would  ask, 
What  think  they  of  the  Critic's  task  ? 
Perceive  they  now  our  shallow  arts,  — 
That  merely  from  the  want  of  parts 
To  write  ourselves,  we  gravely  taught 
How  books  by  others  should  be  wTOUght  ?  " 

19* 


222 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


Whom  interrupting,  then  inquired 

A  fifth,  in  squalid  garb  attired, 

"  Do  now  the  world  with  much  regard 

In  memory  hold  the  dirty  Bard, 

Who  credit  gained  for  genius  rare 

By  shabby  coat  and  uncombed  hair  ?  " 

"  Or  do  they,"  said  a  Shade  of  prose, 

With  many  a  pimple's  ghost  on  nose, 

"  The  eccentric  author  still  admire, 

Who,  wanting  that  same  genius'  fire, 

Diving  in  cellars  underground 

In  pipe  the  spark  ethereal  found,  — 

Which,  fanned  by  many  a  ribald  joke, 

From  brother  tipplers  puffed  in  smoke, 

Such  blaze  diffused,  with  crackling  loud, 

As  blinded  all  the  staring  crowd  ?  " 

And  last,  with  jealous-glancing  eye, 

That  seemed  in  all  around  to  pry, 

A  Painter's  ghost  in  voice  suppressed, 

Thus  questioning,  the  group  addressed  :  — 

"  Sweet  strangers,  may  I  too  demand, 
How  thrive  the  offspring  of  my  hand  ? 
Whether,  as  when  in  life  I  flourished, 
They  still  by  puffs  of  fame  are  nourished  ? 
Or  whether  have  the  world  discerned 
The  tricks  by  which  my  fame  was  earned;  — 
That,  lacking  in  my  pencil  skill, 
I  made  my  tongue  its  office  fill ;  — 
That,  marking  (as  for  love  of  truth) 
In  others'  works  a  limb  uncouth, 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


223 


Or  face  too  young,  or  face  too  old, 

Or  color  hot,  or  color  cold, 

Or  hinting,  (if  to  praise  betrayed,) 

<  Though  colored  well,  it  yet  might  fade] 

And  £  Though  its  grace  I  can't  deny, 

Yet  pity 't  is  so  hard  and  dry,' 

I  thus  by  implication  showed 

That  mine  were  wrought  in  better  mode ;  — 

And,  talking  thus  superiors  down, 

Obliquely  raised  my  own  renown  ? 

In  short,  I  simply  this  would  ask,  — 

If  Truth  has  stripped  me  of  the  mask, 

And,  chasing  Fashion's  mist  away, 

Exposed  me  to  the  eye  of  day,  — - 

A  Painter  false,  without  a  heart, 

Who  loved  himself,  and  not  his  art"  * 


*  The  author  would  be  sorry  to  have  it  supposed  that  he  alludes 
here  to  any  individual ;  for  he  can  say  with  truth,  that  such  a  character 
has  never  fallen  under  his  observation :  much  less  would  he  be  thought  to 
reflect  on  the  Artists,  as  a  class  of  men  to  which  such  baseness  may  be 
generally  imputed.  The  case  here  is  merely  supposed,  to  show  how  easily 
imbecility  and  selfishness  may  pervert  this  most  innocent  of  all  arts  to  the 
vilest  purposes.  He  may  be  allowed,  also,  to  disclaim  an  opinion  too  gen- 
erally prevalent ;  namely,  that  envy  and  detraction  are  the  natural  off- 
spring of  the  art.  That  Artists  should  possess  a  portion  of  these  vices,  in 
common  with  Poets,  Musicians,  and  other  candidates  for  fame,  is  reasona- 
bly to  be  expected  ;  but  that  they  should  exclusively  monopolize  them,  or 
even  hold  an  undue  proportion,  it  were  ungenerous  to  suppose.  The  au- 
thor has  known  Artists  in  various  countries,  and  he  can  truly  say,  that,  with 
a  very  few  exceptions,  he  has  found  them  candid  and  liberal,  prompt  to 
discover  merit,  and  just  in  applauding  it.  If  there  have  been  exceptions, 
he  has  also  generally  been  able  to  trace  their  cause  to  the  unpropitious  co- 
incidence of  narrow  circumstances,  a  defective  education,  and  poverty  of 
intellect.  Is  it  then  surprising,  that  in  the  hands  of  such  a  triumvirate  the 
art  should  be  degraded  to  an  imposture,  to  the  trick  of  a  juggler  ?    But  it 


224 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


At  which,  with  fixed  and  fishy  gaze, 
The  Strangers  both  expressed  amaze. 
u  Good  Sir,"  said  they,  " 't  is  strange  you  dare 
Such  meanness  of  yourself  declare." 

"  Were  I  on  earth,"  replied  the  Shade, 
"  I  never  had  the  truth  betrayed ; 
For  there  (and,  I  suspect,  like  you) 
I  ne'er  had  time  myself  to  view. 
Yet,  knowing  that  'bove  all  creation 
I  held  myself  in  estimation, 
I  deemed  that  what  I  loved  the  best 
Of  every  virtue  was  possessed. 
But  here  in  colors  black  and  true 
Men  see  themselves,  who  never  knew 
Their  motives  in  the  worldly  strife, 
Or  real  characters  through  life. 
And  here,  alas !  I  scarce  had  been 
A  little  day,  when  every  sin 
That  slumbered  in  my  living  breast, 
By  Minos  roused  from  torpid  rest, 
Like  thousand  adders,  rushing  out, 
Entwined  my  shuddering  limbs  about. 

0  strangers,  hear !  —  the  truth  I  tell  — 
That  fearful  sight  I  saw  was  Hell. 
And,  O  !  with  what  unmeasured  woe 
Did  bitterness  upon  me  flow, 

When,  thundering  through  the  hissing  air, 

1  heard  the  sentence  of  Despair,  — 


surely  would  be  a  cause  of  wonder,  if,  with  such  leprous  members,  the 
sound  and  respectable  body  of  its  professors  should  escape  the  suspicion 
of  partaking  their  contamination, 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


225 


1  Now,  never  hope  from  Hell  to  flee  ; 
Yourself  is  all  the  Hell  you  see ! ' " 

He  ceased.    But  still  with  stubborn  pride 
The  rival  Shades  each  other  eyed ; 
When,  bursting  with  terrific  sound, 
The  voice  of  Minos  shook  the  ground. 
The  startled  ghosts  on  either  side, 
Like  clouds  before  the  wind,  divide  ; 
And  leaving  far  a  passage  free, 
Each  conning  his  defensive  plea, 
With  many  a  crafty  lure  for  grace, 
The  Painters  onward  hold  their  pace. 
Anon  before  the  Judgment- Seat, 
With  sneer  confronting  sneer  they  meet : 
And  now  in  deep  and  awful  strain, 
Piercing  like  fiery  darts  the  brain, 
Thus  Minos  spake  :  —  "  Though  I  am  he 
From  whom  no  secret  thought  may  flee  ; 
Who  sees  it  ere  the  birth  be  known 
To  him  that  claims  it  for  his  own ; 
Yet  would  I  still  with  patience  hear 
What  each  may  for  himself  declare, 
That  all  in  your  defence  may  see 
The  justice  pure  of  my  decree. 
But,  hold  !  —  It  ill  beseems  my  place 
To  hear  debate  in  such  a  case  : 
Be  therefore  thou,  Da  Vinci's  shade, 
Who  when  on  earth  to  men  displayed 
The  scattered  powers  of  human  kind 
In  thy  capacious  soul  combined,  — 
Be  thou  the  umpire  of  the  strife, 
And  judge  as  thou  wert  still  in  life." 


226 


THE    TWO  PAINTERS. 


Tims  bid,  with  grave,  becoming  air, 
The  appointed  judge  assumed  the  chair. 
And  now  with  modest-seeming  air, 
The  rivals  straight  for  speech  prepare ; 
And  thus,  with  hand  upon  his  breast, 
The  Senior  Ghost  the  Judge  addressed :  — 
"  The  world  (if  aught  the  world  I  durst 
In  this  believe)  did  call  me  first 
Of  those,  who,  by  the  magic  play 
Of  harmonizing  colors,  sway 
The  gazer's  sense  with  such  surprise, 
As  makes  him  disbelieve  his  eyes. 
'T  is  true  that  some,  of  vision  dim, 
Or  squeamish  taste,  or  pedant  whim, 
My  works  assailed  with  narrow  spite  ; 
And,  passing  o'er  my  color  bright, 
Reproached  me  for  my  want  of  grace, 
And  silks  and  velvets  out  of  place, 
And  vulgar  form,  and  lame  design, 
And  want  of  character,  —  in  fine, 
For  lack  of  worth  of  every  kind 
To  charm  or  to  enlarge  the  mind. 
Now  this,  my  Lord,  as  will  appear, 
Was  nothing  less  than  malice  sheer, 
To  stab  me,  like  assassins  dark, 
Because  I  did  not  hit  a  mark, 
At  which  (as  I  have  hope  of  fame) 
I  never  once  designed  to  aim. 
For,  seeing  that  the  life  of  man 
Was  scarcely  longer  than  a  span, 
And  knowing  that  the  Graphic  Art 
Ne'er  mortal  mastered  but  in  part, 


THE    TWO  PAINTERS. 


2^7 


I  wisely  deemed 't  were  labor  vain, 
Should  I  attempt  the  iv/iole  to  gain  ; 
And  therefore,  with  ambition  high, 
Aspired  to  reach  what  pleased  the  eye  ; 
Which,  truly,  Sir,  must  be  confessed 
A  part  that  far  excels  the  rest : 
For  if,  as  all  the  world  agree, 
'Twixt  Painting  and  fair  Poesy 
The  difference  in  the  mode  be  found, 
Of  color  this,  and  that  of  sound, 
-T  is  plain,  o'er  every  other  grace, 
That  color  holds  the  highest  place ; 
As  being  that  distinctive  part, 
Which  bounds  it  from  another  art. 
If,  therefore,  with  reproof  severe 
I  've  galled  my  pigmy  Rival  here, 
?T  was  only,  as  your  Lordship  knows, 
Because  his  foolish  envy  chose 
To  rank  his  classic  forms  of  mud. 
Above  my  wholesome  flesh  and  blood." 

Thus  ended  parle  the  Senior  Shade. 
And  now,  as  scorning  to  upbraid, 
With  curving,  parabolic  smile, 
Contemptuous,  eying  him  the  while, 
His  Rival  thus  :  —  "  '  T  were  vain,  my  Lord 
To  wound  a  gnat  by  spear  or  sword  ;  * 
If,  therefore,  i,  of  greater  might, 
Would  meet  this  thing  in  equal  fight, 
'T  were  fit  that  I  in  size  should  be 
As  mean,  diminutive,  as  he ; 


*  "  Who  breaks  a  butterfly  upon  a  wheel  ?  "  —  Pope, 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


Of  course,  disdaining  to  reply, 

I  pass  the  wretch  unheeded  by. 

But,  since  your  Lordship  deigns  to  know 

What  I  in  my  behalf  may  show, 

With  due  submission,  I  proclaim, 

That  few  on  earth  have  borne  a  name 

More  envied  or  esteemed  than  mine, 

For  grace,  expression,  and  design, 

For  manners  true  of  every  clime, 

And  composition's  art  sublime. 

In  academic  lore  profound, 

I  boldly  took  that  lofty  ground, 

Which,  as  it  raised  me  near  the  sky, 

Was  thence  for  vulgar  eyes  too  high ; 

Or,  if  beheld,  to  them  appeared 

By  clouds  of  gloomy  darkness  bleared. 

Yet  still  that  misty  height  I  chose, 

For  well  I  knew  the  world  had  those 

Whose  sight,  by  learning  cleared  of  rheum, 

Could  pierce  with  ease  the  thickest  gloom. 

Thus,  perched  sublime,  'mid  clouds  I  wrought 

Nor  heeded  what  the  vulgar  thought. 

What,  though  with  clamor  coarse  and  rude 

They  jested  on  my  colors  crude ; 

Comparing,  with  malicious  grin, 

My  drapery  to  bronze  and  tin, 

My  flesh  to  brick  and  earthen  ware, 

To  wire  of  various  kinds  my  hair ; 

Or  (if  a  landscape  bit  they  saw) 

My  trees  to  pitchforks  crowned  with  straw, 

My  clouds  to  pewter  plates  of  thin  edge, 

And  fields  to  dish  of  eggs  and  spinage ; 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS, 

Yet  this  and  many  a  grosser  rub, 
Like  famed  Diogenes  in  tub, 
I  bore  with  philosophic  nerve, 
Nay,  gladly  bore ;  for,  here  observe, 
'  T  was  that  which  gave  to  them  offence 
Did  constitute  my  excellence, — 
I  see,  my  Lord,  at  this  you  stare : 
Yet  thus  I'll  prove  it  to  a  hair.  — 
As  Mind  and  Body  are  distinct, 
Though  long  in  social  union  linked, 
And  as  the  only  power  they  boast 
Is  merely  at  each  other's  cost ; 
If  both  should  hold  an  equal  station, 
They 'd  both  be  kings  without  a  nation : 
If,  therefore,  one  would  paint  the  Mind 
In  partnership  with  Body  joined, 
And  give  to  each  an  equal  place, 
With  each  an  equal  truth  and  grace, 
'Tis  clear  the  picture  could  not  fail 
To  be  without  or  head  or  tail. 
And  therefore,  as  the  Mind  alone 
I  chose  should  fill  my  graphic  throne, 
To  fix  her  power  beyond  dispute, 
I  trampled  Body  under  foot : 
That  is,  in  more  prosaic  dress, 
As  I  the  passions  would  express, 
And  as  they  ne'er  could  be  portrayed 
Without  the  subject  Body's  aid, 
I  showed  no  more  of  that  than  merely 
Sufficed  to  represent  them  clearly : 
As  thus,  —  by  simple  means  and  pure 
Of  light  and  shadow,  and  contour. 
20 


230 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


But,  since  what  mortals  call  complexion 
Has  with  the  mind  no  more  connection, 
Than  ethics  with  a  country  dance, 
I  left  my  coloring  all  to  chance ; 
Which  oft  (as  I  may  proudly  state) 
With  Nature  warred  at  such  a  rate, 
As  left  no  mortal  hue  or  stain 
Of  base,  corrupting  flesh,  to  chain 
The  Soul  to  earth ;  but,  free  as  light, 
E'en  let  her  soar  till  out  of  sight." 

Thus  spake  the  champion  bold  of  Mind ; 
And  thus  the  Colorist  rejoined:  — 
"  In  truth,  my  Lord,  I  apprehend, 
If  I  by  ivords  with  him  contend, 
My  case  is  gone ;  for  he,  by  gift 
Of  what  is  called  the  gab,  can  shift 
The  right  for  wrong,  with  such  a  sleight, 
That  right  seems  wrong  and  wrong  the  right,  — 
Nay,  by  his  twisting  logic,  make 
A  square  the  form  of  circle  take. 
I  therefore,  with  submission  meet, 
In  justice  do  your  Grace  entreat 
To  let  awhile  your  judgment  pause, 
That  ivorks,  not  words,  may  plead  our  cause. 
Let  Mercury  then  to  Earth  repair, 
The  works  of  both  survey  with  care, 
And  hither  bring  the  best  of  each, 
And  save  us  further  waste  of  speech." 

"  Such  fair  demand,"  the  Judge  replied, 
"  Could  not  with  justice  be  denied.  — 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


231 


Good  Mercury,  hence  ! "    "I  fly,  my  Lord," 
The  Courier  said.    And,  at  the  word, 
High-bounding,  wings  his  airy  flight 
So  swift,  his  form  eludes  the  sight ; 
Nor  aught  is  seen  his  course  to  mark, 
Save  when  athwart  the  region  dark 
His  brazen  helm  is  spied  afar, 
Bright-trailing  like  a  falling  star. 

And  now  for  minutes  ten  there  stole 
A  silence  deep  o'er  every  soul,  — 
When,  lo!  again  before  them  stands 
The  Courier's  self  with  empty  hands. 
"  Why,  how  is  this  ?  "  exclaimed  the  twain  ; 
"  Where  are  the  pictures,  Sir  ?    Explain  !  " 
u  Good  Sirs,"  replied  the  God  of  Post, 
"  I  scarce  had  reached  the  other  coast, 
When  Charon  told  me,  one  he  ferried 
Informed  him  they  were  dead  and  buried ; 
Then  bade  me  hither  haste  and  say, 
Their  ghosts  were  now  upon  the  way." 
In  mute  amaze  the  Painters  stood. 
But  soon  upon  the  Stygian  flood, 
Behold !  the  spectre-pictures  float, 
Like  rafts,  behind  the  towing  boat ; 
Now  reached  the  shore,  in  close  array, 
Like  armies  drilled  in  Homer's  day, 
When  marching  on  to  meet  the  foe, 
By  bucklers  hid  from  top  to  toe, 
They  move  along  the  dusky  fields, 
A  grisly  troop  of  painted  shields ; 
And  now,  arrived,  in  order  fair, 
A  gallery  huge  they  hang  in  air. 


232 


THE    TWO  PAINTERS. 


The  ghostly  crowd  with  gay  surprise 
Began  to  rub  their  stony  eyes : 
Such  pleasant  lounge,  they  all  averred, 
None  saw  since  he  had  been  interred ; 
And  thus,  like  connoisseurs  on  Earth, 
Began  to  weigh  the  pictures'  worth. 
But  first  (as  deemed  of  higher  kind) 
Examined  they  the  works  of  Mind. 
*  "  Pray  what  is  this  ?  "  demanded  one. 
"  That,  Sir,  is  Phoebus,  alias  Sun : 
A  classic  work  you  can't  deny ; 
The  car  and  horses  in  the  sky, 
The  clouds  on  which  they  hold  their  way, 
Proclaim  him  all  the  God  of  Day." 
"  Nay,  learned  Sir,  his  dirty  plight 
More  fit  beseems  the  God  of  Night. 
Besides,  I  cannot  well  divine 
How  mud  like  this  can  ever  shine." 
"  Then  look  at  that  a  little  higher." 
"  I  see 't  is  Orpheus,  by  his  lyre. 
The  beasts  that  listening  stand  around, 
Do  well  declare  the  force  of  sound : 
But  why  the  fiction  thus  reverse, 
And  make  the  power  of  song  a  curse  ? 
The  ancient  Orpheus  softened  rocks, 
Yours  changes  living  things  to  blocks." 
"  Well,  this  you  '11  sure  acknowledge  fine,  — 
Parnassus'  top,  with  all  the  Nine. 
Ah,  there  is  beauty,  soul,  and  fire, 
And  all  that  human  wit  inspire ! " 

*  The  author,  having  no  revenge  to  gratify,  and  consequently  no  pleas- 
ure in  giving  pain,  has  purposely  excluded  the  works  of  all  living  Artists 
from  this  Gallery 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


2-33 


"  Good  Sir,  you  're  right ;  for,  being  stone, 
They  're  each  to  blunted  wits  a  hone." 
"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  inquired  another. 
«  That,  Sir,  is  Cupid  and  his  Mother." 
"  What,  Venus  ?    Sure  it  cannot  be  : 
That  skin  begrimed  ne'er  felt  the  sea ; 
That  Cupid,  too,  ne'er  knew  the  sky, 
For  lead,  I 'm  sure,  could  never  fly." 
"  I  '11  hear  no  more,"  the  Painter  said, 
"  Your  souls  are,  like  your  bodies,  dead ! " 

With  secret  triumph  now  elate, 
His  grinning  Rival  'gan  to  prate. 
"  O,  fie !  my  friends  ;  upon  my  word, 
You  're  too  severe ;  he  should  be  heard,  — 
For  Mind  can  ne'er  to  glory  reach 
Without  the  usual  aid  of  speech. 
If  thus,  howe'er,  you  seal  his  doom, 
What  hope  have  I  unknown  to  Rome  ? 
But  since  the  truth  be  your  dominion, 
I  beg  to  hear  your  just  opinion. 
This  picture,  then,  —  which  some  have  thought 
By  far  the  best  I  ever  wrought,  — 
Observe  it  well  with  critic  ken ; 
'T  is  Daniel  in  the  Lions'  Den." 
"  'T  is  flesh  itself!  "  exclaimed  a  critic  ; 
"  But  why  make  Daniel  paralytic  ? 
His  limbs  and  features  are  distorted, 
And  then  his  legs  are  badly  sorted. 
'T  is  true,  a  miracle  you  've  hit, 
But  not  as  told  in  Holy  Writ ; 
For  there  the  miracle  was  braving, 
With  bones  unbroke,  the  Lions'  craving ; 
20* 


234 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


But  yours,  (what  ne'er  could  man  befall,) 

That  he  should  live  with  none  at  all" 

"  And  pray,"  inquired  another  spectre, 

"  What  Mufti 's  that  at  pious  lecture  ?  " 

"  That 's  Socrates,  condemned  to  die  ; 

He  next,  in  sable,  standing  by, 

Is  Galen,*  come  to  save  his  friend, 

If  possible,  from  such  an  end ; 

The  other  figures,  grouped  around, 

His  Scholars,  wrapt  in  woe  profound." 

"  And  am  I  like  to  this  portrayed  ?  " 

Exclaimed  the  Sage^s  smiling  Shade. 

"  Good  Sir,  I  never  knew  before 

That  I  a  Turkish  turban  wore, 

Or  mantle  hemmed  with  golden  stitches, 

Much  less  a  pair  of  satin  breeches ; 

But,  as  for  him  in  sable  clad, 

Though  wondrous  kind,  't  was  rather  mad 

To  visit  one  like  me  forlorn, 

So  long  before  himself  was  born." 

"  And  what 's  the  next  ?"  inquired  a  third  ; 

w  A  jolly  blade,  upon  my  word  !  " 

"'T  is  Alexander,  Philip's  son, 

Lamenting  o'er  his  battles  won  ; 

That,  now  his  mighty  toils  are  o'er, 

The  world  has  naught  to  conquer  more." 

At  which,  forth  stalking  from  the  host, 

Before  them  stood  the  Hero's  Ghost. 

"  Was  that,"  said  he,  "  my  earthly  form, 

The  Genius  of  the  battle-storm  ? 


*  To  those  who  are  conversant  with  the  works  of  the  Old  Masters,  this 
piece  of  anachronism  will  hardly  appear  exaggerated. 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


235 


From  top  to  toe  the  figure 's  Dutch ! 
Alas,  my  friend,  had  I  been  such, 
Had  I  that  fat  and  meaty  skull, 
Those  bloated  cheeks,  and  eyes  so  dull, 
That  drivelling  mouth,  and  bottle  nose, 
Those  shambling  legs,  and  gouty  toes,  — 
Thus  formed  to  snore  throughout  the  day, 
And  eat  and  drink  the  night  away, — ■ 
I  ne'er  had  felt  the  feverish  flame 
That  caused  my  bloody  thirst  for  fame, 
Nor  madly  claimed  immortal  birth, 
Because  the  vilest  brute  on  earth  : 
And,  O !  I 'd  not  been  doomed  to  hear, 
Still  whizzing  in  my  blistered  ear, 
The  curses  deep,  in  damning  peals, 
That  rose  from  'neath  my  chariot-wheels, 
When  I  along  the  embattled  plain 
With  furious  triumph  crushed  the  slain  : 
I  should  not  thus  be  doomed  to  see, 
In  every  shape  of  agony, 
The  victims  of  my  cruel  wrath, 
For  ever  dying,  strew  my  path ; 
The  grinding  teeth,  the  lips  awry, 
The  inflated  nose,  the  starting  eye, 
The  mangled  bodies  writhing  round, 
Like  serpents,  on  the  bloody  ground  ; 
I  should  not  thus  for  ever  seem 
A  charnel-house,  and  scent  the  steam 
Of  black,  fermenting,  putrid  gore, 
Rank  oozing  through  each  burning  pore  ; 
Behold,  as  on  a  dungeon  wall, 
The  worms  upon  my  body  crawl, 


236 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


The  which,  if  I  would  brush  away, 
Around  my  clammy  fingers  play, 
And,  twining  fast  with  many  a  coil, 
In  loathsome  sport  my  labor  foil." 

"  Enough  !  "  the  frighted  Painter  cried, 
And  hung  his  head  in  fallen  pride. 

Not  so  the  other.    He,  of  stuff 
More  stubborn,  ne'er  would  cry,  Enough  ; 
But,  like  a  soundly  cudgelled  oak, 
More  sturdy  grew  at  every  stroke. 
And  thus  again  his  ready  tongue 
With  fluent  logic  would  have  rung  :  — 
"  My  Lord,  I  '11  prove,  or  I 'm  a  liar" 
Whom  interrupting  then  with  ire, 
Thus  checked  the  Judge  :  —  "O,  proud,  yet  mean ! 
And  canst  thou  hope  from  me  to  screen 
Thy  foolish  heart,  and  o'er  it  spread 
A  veil  to  cheat  the  omniscient  dead  ? 
And  canst  thou  hope,  as  once  on  Earth, 
Applause  to  gain  by  specious  worth,  — 
Like  those  that  still  by  sneer  and  taunt 
Would  prove  pernicious  what  they  want,  — 
And  claim  the  mastership  of  Art, 
Because  thou  only  know'st  a  part? 

"  Hadst  thou  from  Nature,  not  the  Schools 
Distorted  by  pedantic  rules, 
With  patience  wrought,  such  logic  vain 
Had  ne'er  perverted  thus  thy  brain : 
For  genius  never  gave  delight 
By  means  of  what  offends  the  sight : 


THE   TWO   PAINTERS*  237 

Nor  hadst  thou  deemed,  with  folly  mad, 
Thou  couldst  to  Nature's  beauties  add, 
By  taking  from  her  that  which  gives 
The  best  assurance  that  she  lives ; 
By  imperfection  give  attraction, 
And  multiply  them  by  subtraction. 

"  Did  Raffael  thus,  whose  honored  ghost 
Is  now  Elysium's  fairest  boast  ? 
Far  different  he.    Though  weak  and  lame 
In  parts  that  gave  to  others  fame, 
Yet  sought  not  he  by  such  defect 
To  swindle  praise  for  wise  neglect 
Of  vulgar  charms,  that  only  blind 
The  dazzled  eye  to  those  of  Mind. 
By  Heaven  impressed  with  genius'  seal, 
An  eye  to  see,  and  heart  to  feel, 
His  soul  through  boundless  Nature  roved, 
And  seeing  felt,  and  feeling  loved. 
But  weak  the  power  of  mind  at  will 
To  give  the  hand  the  painter's  skill ; 
For  mortal  works,  maturing  slow, 
From  patient  care  and  labor  flow : 
And,  hence  restrained,  his  youthful  hand 
Obeyed  a  master's  dull  command ; 
But  soon  with  health  his  sickly  style 
From  Leonardo  learned  to  smile ; 
And  now  from  Buonarroti  caught 
A  nobler  Form  ;  and  now  it  sought 
Of  Color  fair  the  magic  spell, 
And  traced  her  to  the  Friar's  *  cell. 


*  Fra  Bartolomeo. 


238 


THE   TWO  PAINTERS. 


No  foolish  pride,  no  narrow  rule, 
Enslaved  his  soul ;  from  every  School, 
Whatever  fair,  whatever  grand, 
His  pencil,  like  a  potent  wand, 
Transfusing,  bade  his  canvas  grace. 
Progressive  thus,  with  giant  pace, 
And  energy  no  toil  could  tame, 
He  climbed  the  rugged  mount  of  Fame  : 
And  soon  had  reached  the  summit  bold, 
When  Death,  who  there  delights  to  hold 
His  fatal  watch,  with  envious  blow 
Quick  hurled  him  to  the  shades  below." 

Thus  checked  the  Judge  the  champion  vain 
Of  Classic  Form ;  and  thus,  in  strain 
By  anger  half  and  pity  moved, 
The  ghostly  Colorist  reproved :  — 
"  And  what  didst  thou  aspire  to  gain, 
Who  daredst  the  will  of  Jove  arraign, 
That  bounded  thus  within  a  span 
The  little  life  of  little  man, 
With  shallow  art  deriving  thence 
Excuses  for  thy  indolence  ? 
'T  is  cant  and  hypocritic  stuff! 
The  life  of  man  is  long  enough : 
For,  did  he  but  the  half  improve, 
He  would  not  quarrel  thus  with  Jove. 

"  But  most  I  marvel  (if  it  be 
That  aught  may  wondrous  seem  to  me) 
That  Jove's  high  gift,  your  noble  Art, 
Bestowed  to  raise  man's  grovelling  heart, 


THE   TWO  FAINTERS. 


239 


Refining  with  ethereal  ray 
Each  gross  and  selfish  thought  away, 
Should  pander  turn  of  paltry  pelf, 
Imprisoning  each  within  himself; 
Or,  like  a  gorgeous  serpent,  be 
Your  splendid  source  of  misery, 
And,  crashing  with  his  burnished  folds, 
Still  narrower  make  your  narrow  souls. 

"  But  words  can  ne'er  reform  produce 
In  Ignorance  and  Pride  obtuse. 
Then  know,  ye  vain  and  foolish  pair ! 
Your  doom  is  fixed  a  yoke  to  bear 
Like  beasts  on  Earth  ;  and,  thus  in  tether, 
Five  centuries  to  paint  together. 
If  thus,  by  mutual  labors  joined, 
Your  jarring  souls  should  be  combined, 
The  faults  of  each  the  other  mending, 
The  powders  of  both  harmonious  blending, 
Great  Jove,  perhaps,  in  gracious  vein, 
May  send  your  souls  on  Earth  again  ; 
Yet  there  One  only  Painter  be ; 
For  thus  the  eternal  Fates  decree : 
'  One  leg  alone  shall  never  run, 
Nor  two  Half-Painters  make  but  One.' " 


240 


ECCENTRICITY. 

"  Projec&re  animas. "  —  Virg. 

Alas,  my  friend!  what  hope  have  I  of  fame, 
Who  am,  as  Nature  made  me,  still  the  same  ? 
And  thou,  poor  suitor  to  a  bankrupt  Muse, 
How  mad  thy  toil,  how  arrogant  thy  views ! 
What  though  endued  with  Genius'  power  to  move 
The  magic  chords  of  sympathy  and  love, 
The  painter's  eye,  the  poet's  fervid  heart, 
The  tongue  of  eloquence,  the  vital  art 
Of  bold  Prometheus,  kindling  at  command 
With  breathing  life  the  labors  of  his  hand ; 
Yet  shall  the  world  thy  daring,  high  pretence 
With  scorn  deride,  for  thou  —  hast  common  sense. 

But  dost  thou,  reckless  of  stern  honor's  laws, 
Intemperate  hunger  for  the  world's  applause  ? 
Bid  Nature  hence;  her  fresh,  embowering  woods, 
Her  lawns  and  fields,  and  rocks,  and  rushing  floods, 
And  limpid  lakes,  and  health-exhaling  soil, 
Elastic  gales,  and  all  the  glorious  toil 
Of  Heaven's  own  hand,  with  courtly  shame  discard, 
And  Fame  shall  triumph  in  her  city  bard. 


ECCENTRICITY. 


241 


Then,  pent  secure  in  some  commodious  lane, 
Where  stagnant  Darkness  holds  her  morbid  reign, 
Perchance  snug-roosted  o'er  some  brazier's  den, 
Or  stall  of  nymphs,  by  courtesy  not  men, 
Whose  gentle  trade  to  skin  the  living  eel, 
The  while  they  curse  it  that  it  dares  to  feel ;  * 
Whilst  ribald  jokes  and  repartees  proclaim 
Their  happy  triumph  o'er  the  sense  of  shame  ; 
The  city  Muse  invoke,  that  imp  of  mind 
By  smoke  engendered  on  an  eastern  wind ; 
Then,  half  awake,  thy  patent-thinking  pen 
The  paper  give,  and  blot  the  souls  of  men. 

The  time  has  been  when  Nature's  simple  face 
Perennial  youth  possessed,  and  winning  grace ; 
But  who  shall  dare,  in  this  refining  age, 
With  Nature's  praise  to  soil  his  snowy  page  ? 
What  polished  lover,  unappalled  by  sneers,  # 
Dare  court  a  beldame  of  six  thousand  years, 
When  every  clown,  with  microscopic  eyes, 
The  gaping  furrows  on  her  forehead  spies  ?  — 
"  Good  Sir,  your  pardon.    In  her  naked  state, 
Her  withered  form  we  cannot  choose  but  hate ; 
But  fashion's  art  the  waste  of  time  repairs, 
Each  wrinkle  fills,  and  dyes  her  silver  hairs ; 
Thus  wrought  anew,  our  gentle  bosoms  glow ; 
We  cannot  choose  but  love  what 's  comme  ilfaut" 

Alas,  poor  Cowper !  could  thy  chastened  eye 
(Awhile  forgetful  of  thy  joys  on  high) 


*  See  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson. 

21 


242 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Revisit  earth,  what  indignation  strange 
Would  sting  thee  to  behold  the  courtly  change! 
Here  "  velvet "  lawns,  there  "  plushy  "  woods  that  lave 
Their  "  silken  "  tresses  in  the  "  glassy  "  wave ; 
Here   "  'broidered"   meads,  there  flowery  "carpets" 
spread, 

And  "  downy  "  banks  to  "  pillow  "  Nature's  head. 
How  wouldst  thou  start  to  find  thy  native  soil, 
Like  birthday  belle,  by  gross  mechanic  toil 
Tricked  out  to  charm  with  meretricious  air, 
As  though  all  France  and  Manchester  were  there! 
But  this  were  luxury,  were  bliss  refined, 
To  view  the  altered  region  of  the  mind ; 
Where  whim  and  mystery,  like  wizards,  rule, 
And  conjure  wisdom  from  the  seeming  fool, — 
Where  learned  heads,  like  old  cremonas,  boast 
Their  merit  soundest  that  are  cracked  the  most,  — 
While  Genius'  self,  infected  with  the  joke, 
His  person  decks  with  Folly's  motley  cloak. 

Behold,  loud-rattling  like  a  thousand  drums, 
Eccentric  Hal,  the  child  of  Nature,  comes ! 
Of  Nature  once,  —  but  now  he  acts  a  part, 
And  Hal  is  now  the  full-grown  boy  of  art. 
In  youth's  pure  spring  his  high,  impetuous  soul 
Nor  custom  owned,  nor  fashion's  vile  control. 
By  Truth  impelled  where  beckoning  Nature  led, 
Through  life  he  moved  with  firm,  elastic  tread ; 
But  soon  the  world,  with  wonder-teeming  eyes, 
His  manners  mark,  and  goggle  with  surprise. 
"  He 's  wondrous  strange ! "  exclaims  each  gaping  clod; 
"  A  wondrous  genius,  for  he 's  wondrous  odd! " 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Where'er  he  goes,  there  goes  before  his  —  fame, 

And  courts  and  taverns  echo  round  his  name ; 

Till,  fairly  knocked  by  admiration  down, 

The  petted  monster  cracks  his  wondrous  crown. 

No  longer  now  to  simple  Nature  true, 

He  studies  only  to  be  oddly  new ; 

Whate'er  he  does,  whatever  he  deigns  to  say, 

Must  all  be  said  and  done  the  oddest  way ; 

Nay,  e'en  in  dress  eccentric  as  in  thought, 

His  wardrobe  seems  by  Lapland  witches  wrought, 

Himself  by  goblins  in  a  whirlwind  dressed, 

With  rags  of  clouds  from  Hecla's  stormy  crest. 

"  Has  truth  no  charms  ?"    When  first  beheld,  I  grant, 
But,  wanting  novelty,  has  every  want : 
For  pleasure's  thrill  the  sickly  palate  flies, 
Save  haply  pungent  with  a  rare  surprise. 
The  humble  toad  that  leaps  her  nightly  round, 
The  harmless  tenant  of  the  garden  ground, 
Is  loathed,  abhorred,  nay,  all  the  reptile  race 
Together  joined  were  never  half  so  base ; 
Yet  snugly  find  her  in  some  quarry  pent, 
Through  ages  doomed  to  one  tremendous  Lent, 
Surviving  still,  as  if  in  Nature's  spite, 
Without  or  nourishment,  or  air,  or  light, 
What  raptures  then  the  astonished  gazer  seize ! 
What  lovely  creature  like  a  toad  can  please ! 

Hence  many  an  oaf,  by  Nature  doomed  to  shine 
The  unknown  father  of  an  unknown  line, 
If  haply  shipwrecked  on  some  desert  shore 
Of  Folly's  seas,  by  man  untrod  before, 


211 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Which,  bleak  and  barren,  to  the  starving  mind 
Yields  naught  but  fog,  or  damp,  unwholesome  wind, 
With  loud  applause  the  wondering  world  shall  hail, 
And  Fame  embalm  him  in  the  marvellous  tale. 

With  chest  erect,  and  bright,  uplifted  eye, 
On  tiptoe  raised,  like  one  prepared  to  fly, 
Yon  wight  behold,  whose  sole  aspiring  hope 
Eccentric  soars  to  catch  the  hangman's  rope. 
In  order  ranged,  with  date  of  place  and  time, 
Each  owner's  name,  his  parentage  and  crime, 
High  on  his  walls,  inscribed  to  glorious  shame, 
Unnumbered  halters  gibbet  him  to  fame. 

Who  next  appears  thus  stalking  by  his  side  ? 
Why  that  is  one  who 'd  sooner  die  than  —  ride! 
No  inch  of  ground  can  maps  unheard  of  show 
Untraced  by  him,  unknown  to  every  toe ; 
As  if  intent  this  punning  age  to  suit, 
The  globe's  circumference  measuring  by  the  foot. 

Nor  less  renowned  whom  stars  inveterate  doom 
To  smiles  eternal,  or  eternal  gloom ; 
For  what 's  a  character  save  one  confined 
To  some  unchanging  sameness  of  the  mind,  — 
To  some  strange,  fixed  monotony  of  mien, 
Or  dress  for  ever  brown,  for  ever  green  ? 

A  sample  comes.    Observe  his  sombre  face, 
Twin-born  with  Death,  without  his  brother's  grace ! 
No  joy  in  mirth  his  soul  perverted  knows, 
Whose  only  joy  to  tell  of  others'  woes. 


ECCENTRICITY. 


A  fractured  limb,  a  conflagrating  fire, 
A  name  or  fortune  lost,  his  tongue  inspire  : 
From  house  to  house  where'er  misfortunes  press 
Like  Fate,  he  roams,  and  revels  in  distress ; 
In  every  ear  with  dismal  boding  moans,  — 
A  walking  register  of  sighs  and  groans ! 

High  towering  next,  as  he'd  eclipse  the  moon, 
With  pride  upblown,  behold  yon  live  balloon. 
All  trades  above,  all  sciences  and  arts, 
To  fame  he  climbs  through  very  scorn  of  parts ; 
With  solemn  emptiness  distends  his  state, 
And,  great  in  nothing,  soars  above  the  great ; 
Nay,  stranger  still,  through  apathy  of  blood, 
By  candor  numbered  with  the  chaste  and  good, 
With  wife,  and  child,  domestic,  stranger,  friend, 
Alike  he  lives,  as  though  his  being's  end 
Were  o'er  his  house  like  formal  guest  to  roam, 
And  walk  abroad  to  leave  himself  at  home. 

"  But  wTho  is  he,  that  sweet,  obliging  youth  ?  " 
He  looks  the  picture  of  ingenuous  truth. 
O,  that 's  his  antipode,  of  courteous  race, 
The  man  of  bows  and  ever-smiling  face. 
Why  Nature  made  him,  or  for  what  designed, 
Never  he  knew,  nor  ever  sought  to  find, 
Till  cunning  came,  blest  harbinger  of  ease ! 
And  kindly  whispered,  "  Thou  wert  born  to  please 
Roused  by  the  news,  behold  him  now  expand, 
Like  beaten  gold,  and  glitter  o'er  the  land. 
Well  stored  with  nods  and  sly,  approving  winks, 
Now  first  with  this  and  now  with  that  he  thinks 
21* 


246 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Howe'er  opposing,  still  assents  to  each, 
And  claps  a  dovetail  to  each  booby's  speech. 
At  random  thus  for  all,  for  none  he  lives, 
Profusely  lavish  though  he  nothing  gives  ; 
The  world  he  roves  as  living  but  to  show 
A  friendless  man  without  a  single  foe ; 
From  bad  to  good,  to  bad  from  good  to  run, 
And  find  a  character  by  seeking  none. 

Who  covets  fame  should  ne'er  be  over  nice,  — 
Some  slight  distortion  pays  the  market  price. 
If  haply  lamed  by  some  propitious  chance, 
Instruct  in  attitude,  or  teach  to  dance  ; 
Be  still  extravagant  in  deed,  or  word ; 
If  new,  enough,  —  no  matter  how  absurd. 

"  Then  what  is  Genius  ?  "    Nay,  if  rightly  used, 
Some  gift  of  Nature  happily  abused. 
Nor  wrongly  deem,  by  this  eccentric  rule, 
That  Nature  favors  whom  she  makes  a  fool. 
Her  scorn  and  favor  we  alike  despise ; 
Not  Nature's  follies,  but  our  own,  we  prize. 

"  Or  what  is  wit  ?  "    A  meteor  bright  and  rare, 
That  comes  and  goes  we  know  not  whence  or  where ; 
A  brilliant  nothing  out  of  something  wrought, 
A  mental  vacuum  by  condensing  thought. 

Behold  Tortoso.    There 's  a  man  of  wit ; 
To  all  things  fitted,  though  for  nothing  fit ; 
Scourge  of  the  world,  yet  crouching  for  a  name, 
And  honor  bartering  for  the  breath  of  fame ; 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Born  to  command,  and  yet  an  arrant  slave ; 
Through  too  much  honesty  a  seeming  knave ; 
At  all  things  grasping,  though  on  nothing  bent, 
And  ease  pursuing  e'en  with  discontent ; 
Through  nature,  arts,  and  sciences  he  flies, 
And  gathers  truth  to  manufacture  lies. 

Nor  only  Wits  for  tortured  talents  claim 
Of  sovereign  mobs  the  glorious  meed  of  fame ; 
E'en  Sages  too,  of  grave  and  reverend  air, 
Ycleped  Philosophers,  must  have  their  share ; 
Who,  deeper  still  in  conjuration  skilled, 
A  mighty  something  out  of  nothing  build. 

"  Then  wherefore  read  ?    Why  cram  the  youthful 
head 

With  all  the  learned  lumber  of  the  dead, 
Who,  seeking  wisdom,  followed  Nature's  laws, 
Nor  dared  effects  admit  without  a  cause  ?  " 
Why  ?  —  Ask  the  sophist  of  our  modern  school ; 
To  foil  the  workman  we  must  know  the  tool ; 
And,  that  possessed,  how  swiftly  is  defaced 
The  noblest,  rarest  monument  of  taste ! 
So  neatly,  too,  the  mutilations  stand 
Like  native  errors  of  the  artist's  hand; 
Nay,  what  is  more,  the  very  tool  betrayed 
To  seem  the  product  of  the  work  it  made. 

"  O  monstrous  slander  on  the  human  race ! " 
Then  read  conviction  in  Ortuno's  case. 
By  Nature  fashioned  in  her  happiest  mood, 
With  learning,  fancy,  keenest  wit  endued, 


248 


ECCENTRICITY. 


To  what  high  purpose,  what  exalted  end, 
These  lofty  gifts  did  great  Ortuno  bend  ? 
"With  grateful  triumph  did  Ortuno  raise 
The  mighty  trophies  to  their  Author's  praise, 
With  skill  deducing  from  the  harmonious  whole 
Immortal  proofs  of  One  Creative  Soul  ? 
Ah,  no  !  infatuate  with  the  dazzling  light, 
In  them  he  saw  their  own  creative  might ; 
Nay,  madly  deemed,  if  such  their  wondrous  skill, 
The  phantom  of  a  God 't  was  theirs  to  will. 

But  granting  that  he  is,  he  bids  you  show 
By  what  you  prove  it,  or  by  what  you  know. 
O  reasoning  worm !  who  questions  thus  of  Him 
That  lives  in  all,  and  moves  in  very  limb ; 
Must  with  himself  in  very  strangeness  dwell ; 
Has  never  heard  the  voice  of  Conscience  tell 
Of  right  and  wrong,  and  speak  in  louder  tone 
Than  tropic  thunder  of  that  Holy  One, 
"Whose  pure,  eternal  justice  shall  requite 
The  deed  of  wrong,  and  justify  the  right. 

Can  such  blaspheme  and  breathe  the  vital  air  1 
Let  mad  philosophy  their  names  declare. 
Yet  some  there  are,  less  daring  in  their  aim, 
With  humbler  cunning  butcher  sense  for  fame  ; 
Who,  doubting  still,  with  many  a  fearful  pause, 
The  existence  grant  of  one  almighty  cause ; 
But,  halting  there,  in  bolder  tone  deny 
The  life  hereafter,  when  the  man  shall  die, 
Nor  mark  the  monstrous  folly  of  their  gain,  — 
That  God  all-wise  should  fashion  them  in  vain. 


ECCENTRICITY. 


'T  were  labor  lost  in  this  material  age, 
When  schoolboys  trample  on  the  Inspired  Page,  — 
When  cobblers  prove  by  syllogistic  pun 
The  sole  they  mend  and  that  of  man  are  one,  — 
'T  were  waste  of  time  to  check  the  Muse's  speed, 
For  all  the  ivhys  and  wherefores  of  their  creed ; 
To  show  how  proved  the  juices  are  the  same 
That  feed  the  body,  and  the  mental  frame. 

But  who,  half  skeptic,  half  afraid  of  wrong, 
Shall  walk  our  streets,  and  mark  the  passing  throng, 
The  brawny  oaf  in  mould  Herculean  cast, 
The  pigmy  statesman  trembling  in  his  blast, 
The  cumbrous  citizen  of  portly  paunch, 
Unwont  to  soar  beyond  the  smoking  haunch, 
The  meagre  bard  behind  the  moving  tun, 
His  shadow  seeming  lengthened  by  the  sun, — 
Who  forms  scarce  visible  shall  thus  descry, 
Like  flitting  clouds  athwart  the  mental  sky, 
From  giant  bodies  then  bare  gleams  of  mind, 
Like  mountain  watch-lights  blinking  to  the  wind,  — 
Nor  blush  to  find  his  unperverted  eye 
Flash  on  his  heart,  and  give  his  tongue  the  lie  ? 

'T  is  passing  strange !  yet,  born  as  if  to  show 
Man  to  himself  his  most  malignant  foe, 
There  are  (so  desperate  is  the  madness  grown) 
Who 'd  rather  live  a  lie  than  live  unknown ; 
Whose  very  tongues,  with  force  of  Holy  Writ, 
Their  doctrines  damn  with  self-recoiling  wit. 

Behold  yon  dwarf,  of  visage  pale  and  wan, — 
A  sketch  of  life,  a  remnant  of  a  man ! 


250 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Whose  livid  lips,  as  now  he  moulds  a  grin, 
Like  charn el-doors  disclose  the  waste  within  ; 
Whose  stiffened  joints  within  their  sockets  grind, 
Like  gibbets  creaking  to  the  passing  wind ; 
Whose  shrivelled  skin  with  such  adhesion  clings 
His  bones  around  in  hard,  compacted  rings, 
If  veins  there  wTere,  no  blood  beneath  could  force, 
Unless  by  miracle,  its  trickling  course  ;  — 
Yet  even  he  within  that  sapless  frame 
A  mind  sustained  that  climbed  the  steeps  of  fame. 
Such  is  the  form  by  mystic  Heaven  designed 
The  earthly  mansion  of  the  rarest  mind. 
But  mark  his  gratitude.    This  soul  sublime, 
This  soul  lord  paramount  o'er  space  and  time, 
This  soul  of  fire,  with  impious  madness  sought 
Itself  to  prove  of  mortal  matter  wrought ; 
Nay,  bred,  engendered,  on  the  grub-worm  plan, 
From  that  vile  clay  which  made  his  outward  man, 
That  shadowy  form  which,  darkening  into  birth, 
But  seemed  a  sign  to  mark  a  soul  on  earth. 

But  who  shall  cast  an  introverted  eye 
Upon  himself,  that  will  not  there  descry 
A  conscious  life  that  shall,  nor  cannot  die  ? 
E'en  at  our  birth,  when  first  the  infant  mould 
Gives  it  a  mansion  and  an  earthly  hold, 
The  exulting  Spirit  feels  the  heavenly  fire 
That  lights  her  tenement  will  ne'er  expire  ; 
And  when,  in  after  years,  disease  and  age, 
Our  fellow-bodies  sweeping  from  life's  stage, 
Obtrude  the  thought  of  death,  e'en  then  we  seem, 
As  in  the  revelation  of  a  dream, 


ECCENTRICITY. 


251 


To  hear  a  voice,  more  audible  than  speech, 

Warn  of  a  part  which  death  can  never  reach. 

Survey  the  tribes  of  savage  men  that  roam 

Like  wandering  herds,  each  wilderness  their  home ;  — 

Nay,  even  there  the  immortal  spirit  stands 

Firm  on  the  verge  of  death,  and  looks  to  brighter  lands. 

Shall  human  wisdom,  then,  with  beetle  sight, 
Because  obstructed  in  its  blundering  flight, 
Despise  the  deep  conviction  of  our  birth, 
And  limit  life  to  this  degraded  earth  ? 

O,  far  from  me  be  that  insatiate  pride, 
Which,  turning  on  itself,  drinks  up  the  tide 
Of  natural  light,  till  one  eternal  gloom, 
Like  walls  of  adamant,  inclose  the  tomb. 
Tremendous  thought !  that  this  transcendent  Power, 
Felled  with  the  body  in  one  fatal  hour, 
With  all  its  faculties,  should  pass  like  air 
For  ages  without  end  as  though  it  never  were ! 

Say,  whence,  obedient  to  their  destined  end, 
The  various  tribes  of  living  nature  tend  ? 
Why  beast,  and  bird,  and  all  the  countless  race 
Of  earth  and  waters,  each  his  proper  place 
Instinctive  knows,  and  through  the  endless  chain 
Of  being  moves  in  one  harmonious  strain ; 
While  man  alone,  with  strange  perversion,  draws 
Rebellious  fame  from  Nature's  broken  laws  ? 
Methinks  I  hear,  in  that  still  voice  that  stole, 
On  Horeb's  mount,  o'er  rapt  Elijah's  soul, 


252 


ECCENTRICITY. 


With  stern  reproof  indignant  Heaven  reply : 
"  'T  is  overweening  Pride,  that  blinds  the  eye 
Of  reasoning  man,  and  o'er  his  darkened  life 
Confusion  spreads,  and  misery  and  strife." 

With  wonder  filled  and  self-reflecting  praise, 
The  slave  of  Pride  his  mighty  powers  surveys ; 
On  Reason's  sun  (by  bounteous  Nature  given, 
To  guide  the  soul  upon  her  way  to  heaven) 
Adoring  gazes,  till  the  dazzling  light 
To  darkness  sears  his  vain,  presumptuous  sight ; 
Then  bold,  though  blind,  through  error's  night  he  runs, 
In  fancy  lighted  by  a  thousand  suns ; 
For  bloody  laurels  now  the  warrior  plays, 
Now  libels  nature  for  the  poet's  bays, 
Now  darkness  drinks  from  metaphysic  springs, 
Or  follows  fate  on  astrologic  wings : 
'Mid  toils  at  length  the  world's  loud  wonder  won, 
With  Persian  piety,  to  Reason's  sun 
Profound  he  bows,  and,  idolist  of  fame, 
Forgets  the  God  who  lighted  first  the  flame. 

All-potent  Reason  !  what  thy  wondrous  light  ? 
A  shooting  star  athwart  a  polar  night ; 
A  bubble's  gleam  amid  the  boundless  main ; 
A  sparkling  sand  on  waste  Arabia's  plain ;  — 
E'en  such,  vain  Power,  thy  limited  control, 
E'en  such  thou  art  to  man's  mysterious  soul ! 

Presumptuous  man !  wouldst  thou  aspiring  reach 
True  wisdom's  height,  let  conscious  weakness  teach 


ECCENTRICITY. 


253 


Thy  feeble  soul  her  poor,  dependent  state, 
Nor  madly  war  with  Nature  to  be  great. 

Come  then,  Humility,  thou  surest  guide ! 
On  earth  again  with  frenzied  men  reside ; 
Tear  the  dark  film  of  vanity  and  lies, 
And  inward  turn  their  renovated  eyes ; 
In  aspect  true  let  each  himself  behold, 
By  self  deformed  in  pride's  portentous  mould. 
And  if  thy  voice,  on  Bethlehem's  holy  plain 
Once  heard,  can  reach  their  flinty  hearts  again, 
Teach  them,  as  fearful  of  a  serpent's  gaze, 
Teach  them  to  shun  the  gloating  eye  of  praise ; 
The  slightest  swervings  from  their  nature's  plan 
Make  them  a  lie,  and  poison  all  the  man, 
Till  black  corruption  spread  the  soul  throughout, 
Whence  thick  and  fierce,  like  fabled  mandrakes,  sprout 
The  seeds  of  vice  with  more  than  tropic  force, 
Exhausting  in  the  growth  their  very  vital  source. 

Nor  wrongly  deem  the  cynic  Muse  aspires 
With  monkish  tears  to  quench  our  nobler  fires. 
Let  honest  pride  our  humble  hearts  inflame, 
First  to  deserve,  ere  yet  we  look  to,  fame ; 
Not  fame  miscalled,  the  mob's  applauding  stare,  — 
This  monsters  have,  proportioned  as  they  're  rare ; 
But  that  sweet  praise,  the  tribute  of  the  good, 
For  wisdom  gained,  through  love  of  truth  pursued. 
Coeval  with  our  birth,  this  pure  desire 
Was  given  to  lift  our  grovelling  natures  higher, 
Till  that  high  praise,  by  genuine  merit  wrung 
For  men's  slow  justice,  shall  employ  the  tongue 
22 


254 


ECCENTRICITY. 


Of  yon  Supernal  Court,  from  whom  may  flow 

Or  bliss  eternal  or  eternal  woe. 

And,  since  in  all  this  hope  exalting  lives, 

Let  virtuous  toil  improve  what  Nature  gives : 

Each  in  his  sphere  some  glorious  palm  may  gain, 

For  Heaven  all- wise  created  naught  in  vain. 

O  task  sublime,  to  till  the  human  soil 
Where  fruits  immortal  crown  the  laborer's  toil ! 
"Where  deathless  flowers,  in  everlasting  bloom, 
May  gales  from  heaven  with  odorous  sweets  perfume, 
Whose  fragrance  still,  when  man's  last  work  is  done, 
And  hoary  Time  his  final  course  has  run, 
Through  ages  back,  with  freshening  power  shall  last, 
Mark  his  long  track,  and  linger  where  he  passed ! 


255 


THE  PAINT- KING. 


Fair  Ellen  was  long  the  delight  of  the  young, 

No  damsel  could  with  her  compare ; 
Her  charms  were  the  theme  of  the  heart  and  the  tongue, 
And  bards  without  number  in  ecstasies  sung 

The  beauties  of  Ellen  the  fair. 

Yet  cold  was  the  maid ;  and  though  legions  advanced, 

All  drilled  by  Ovidean  art, 
And  languished  and  ogled,  protested  and  danced, 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they  glanced 

From  the  hard,  polished  ice  of  her  heart. 

Yet  still  did  the  heart  of  fair  Ellen  implore 
A  something  that  could  not  be  found ; 
Like  a  sailor  she  seemed  on  a  desolate  shore, 
With  nor  house,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  sound  but  the  roar 
Of  breakers  high-dashing  around. 


256  THE  PAINT-KING. 

From  object  to  object  still,  still  would  she  veer, 

Though  nothing,  alas!  could  she  find  ; 
Like  the  moon,  without  atmosphere,  brilliant  and  clear, 
Yet  doomed,  like  the  moon,  with  no  being  to  cheer 
The  bright  barren  waste  of  her  mind. 

But,  rather  than  sit  like  a  statue  so  still 

When  the  rain  made  her  mansion  a  pound, 
Up  and  down  would  she  go,  like  the  sails  of  a  mill, 
And  pat  every  stair,  like  a  woodpecker's  bill, 
From  the  tiles  of  the  roof  to  the  ground. 

One  morn,  as  the  maid  from  her  casement  inclined, 
Passed  a  youth,  with  a  frame  in  his  hand. 

The  casement  she  closed, —  not  the  eye  of  her  mind; 

For,  do  all  she  could,  no,  she  could  not  be  blind ; 
Still  before  her  she  saw  the  youth  stand. 

"  Ah,  what  can  he  do  ?  "  said  the  languishing  maid  ; 

"  Ah,  what  with  that  frame  can  he  do  ?  " 
And  she  knelt  to  the  Goddess  of  Secrets  and  prayed, 
When  the  youth  passed  again,  and  again  he  displayed 

The  frame  and  a  picture  to  view. 

"  O  beautiful  picture  !  M  the  fair  Ellen  cried, 

"  I  must  see  thee  again  or  I  die." 
Then  under  her  white  chin  her  bonnet  she  tied, 
And  after  the  youth  and  the  picture  she  hied, 

When  the  youth,  looking  back,  met  her  eye. 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


257 


"  Fair  damsel,"  said  he,  (and  he  chuckled  the  while,) 

"  This  picture  I  see  you  admire  : 
Then  take  it,  I  pray  you  ;  perhaps 't  will  beguile 
Some  moments  of  sorrow,  (nay,  pardon  my  smile,) 

Or,  at  least,  keep  you  home  by  the  fire." 

Then  Ellen  the  gift  with  delight  and  surprise 

From  the  cunning  young  stripling  received. 
But  she  knew  not  the  poison  that  entered  her  eyes, 
When,  sparkling   with   rapture,  they  gazed    on  the 
prize  ;  — 

Thus,  alas,  are  fair  maidens  deceived ! 

JT  was  a  youth  o'er  the  form  of  a  statue  inclined, 

And  the  sculptor  he  seemed  of  the  stone ; 
Yet  he  languished  as  though  for  its  beauty  he  pined, 
And  gazed  as  the  eyes  of  the  statue  so  blind 
Reflected  the  beams  of  his  own. 

?T  was  the  tale  of  the  sculptor  Pygmalion  of  old ; 

Fair  Ellen  remembered  and  sighed : 
"  Ah,  couldst  thou  but  lift  from  that  marble  so  cold, 
Thine  eyes  too  imploring,  thy  arms  should  enfold 

And  press  me  this  day  as  thy  bride." 

She  said  :  when,  behold,  from  the  canvas  arose 

The  youth,  and  he  stepped  from  the  frame ; 
With  a  furious  transport  his  arms  did  inclose 
The  love-plighted  Ellen ;  and,  clasping,  he  froze 
The  blood  of  the  maid  with  his  flame ! 
22* 


2  "8 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


She  turned,  and  beheld  on  each  shoulder  a  wing. 

"  O  Heaven !  "  cried  she,  "  who  art  thou  ?  " 
From  the  roof  to  the  ground  did  his  fierce  answer  ring, 
As,  frowning,  he  thundered,  "  I  am  the  Paint-King  ! 

And  mine,  lovely  maid,  thou  art  now ! " 

Then  high  from  the  ground  did  the  grim  monster  lift 

The  loud-screaming  maid  like  a  blast ; 
And  he  sped  through  the  air  like  a  meteor  swift, 
While  the  clouds,  wandering  by  him,  did  fearfully  drift 
To  the  right  and  the  left  as  he  passed. 

Now  suddenly  sloping  his  hurricane  flight, 
With  an  eddying  whirl  he  descends  ; 
The  air  all  below  him  becomes  black  as  night, 
And  the  ground  where  he  treads,  as  if  moved  with 

affright, 

Like  the  surge  of  the  Caspian  bends. 

"  I  am  here !  "  said  the  fiend,  and  he  thundering  knocked 

At  the  gates  of  a  mountainous  cave ; 
The  gates  open  flew,  as  by  magic  unlocked, 
While  the  peaks  of  the  mount,  reeling  to  and  fro,  rocked 
Like  an  island  of  ice  on  the  wave. 

"  O,  mercy !  ?  cried  Ellen,  and  swooned  in  his  arms  ; 

But  the  Paint- King,  he  scoffed  at  her  pain. 
"  Prithee,  love,"  said  the  monster,  "  what  mean  these 
alarms  ?  " 

She  hears  not,  see  sees  not,  the  terrible  charms 
That  wake  her  to  horror  again. 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


259 


She  opens  her  lids,  but  no  longer  her  eyes 
Behold  the  fair  youth  she  would  woo ; 

Now  appears  the  Paint-King  in  his  natural  guise ; 

His  face,  like  a  palette  of  villanous  dyes, 

Black  and  white,  red  and  yellow,  and  blue. 

On  the  skull  of  a  Titan,  that  Heaven  defied, 
Sat  the  fiend,  like  the  grim  Giant  Gog, 
While  aloft  to  his  mouth  a  huge  pipe  he  applied, 
Twice  as  big  as  the  Eddystone  Lighthouse,  descried 
As  it  looms  through  an  easterly  fog. 

And  anon,  as  he  puffed  the  vast  volumes,  were  seen, 

In  horrid  festoons  on  the  wall, 
Legs  and  arms,  heads  and  bodies,  emerging  between, 
Like  the  drawing-room  grim  of  the   Scotch  Sawney 
Beane, 

By  the  Devil  dressed  out  for  a  ball. 

"  Ah  me! "  cried  the  damsel,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  Must  I  hang  on  these  walls  to  be  dried  ?  " 
"  O,  no ! "  said  the  fiend,  while  he  sprung  from  his  seat ; 
"  A  far  nobler  fortune  thy  person  shall  meet ; 

Into  paint  will  I  grind  thee,  my  bride ! " 

Then,  seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 

An  oil-jug  he  plunged  her  within. 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  with  the  shrieks  of  despair, 
Did  Ellen  in  torment  convulse  the  dun  air, 

All  covered  with  oil  to  the  chin. 


260 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


On  the  morn  of  the  eighth  on  a  huge,  sable  stone 

Then  Ellen,  all  reeking,  he  laid ; 
With  a  rock  for  his  muller  he  crushed  every  bone, 
But,  though  ground  to  jelly,  still,  still  did  she  groan ; 

For  life  had  forsook  not  the  maid. 

Now,  reaching  his  palette,  with  masterly  care 

Each  tint  on  its  surface  he  spread ; 
The  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
And  the  pearl  and  the  white  of  her  forehead  so  fair, 
And  her  lips'  and  her  cheeks'  rosy-red. 

Then,  stamping  his  foot,  did  the  monster  exclaim, 

"  Now  I  brave,  cruel  Fairy,  thy  scorn ! " 
When  lo !  from  a  chasm  wide-yawning  there  came 
A  light,  tiny  chariot  of  rose-colored  flame, 
By  -a  team  of  ten  glowworms  upborne. 

Enthroned  in  the  midst  on  an  emerald  bright, 

Fair  Geraldine  sat  without  peer ; 
Her  robe  was  a  gleam  of  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  her  mantle  the  fleece  of  a  noon-cloud  white, 

And  a  beam  of  the  moon  was  her  spear. 

In  an  accent  that  stole  on  the  still,  charmed  air 

Like  the  first  gentle  language  of  Eve, 
Thus  spake  from  her  chariot  the  Fairy  so  fair :  — 
"  I  come  at  thy  call,  —  but,  O  Paint- King,  beware, 
Beware  if  again  you  deceive ! " 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


261 


"  'T  is  true,"  said  the  monster,  "thou  queen  of  my  heart, 

Thy  portrait  I  oft  have  essayed ; 
Yet  ne'er  to  the  canvas  could  I  with  my  art 
The  least  of  thy  wonderful  beauties  impart ; 

And  my  failure  with  scorn  you  repaid. 

"  Now  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Comet- King's  tail," 

And  he  towered  with  pride  as  he  spoke, 
"  If  again  with  these  magical  colors  I  fail, 
The  crater  of  Etna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 

And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  smoke. 

"  But  if  I  succeed,  then,  O  fair  Geraldine ! 

Thy  promise  with  justice  I  claim, 
And  thou,  queen  of  Fairies,  shalt  ever  be  mine, 
The  bride  of  my  bed ;  and  thy  portrait  divine 

Shall  fill  all  the  earth  with  my  fame." 

He  spake ;  when,  behold,  the  fair  Geraldine's  form 
On  the  canvas  enchantingly  glowed  ; 

His  touches,  —  they  flew  like  the  leaves  in  a  storm ; 

And  the  pure,  pearly  white  and  the  carnation  warm 
Contending  in  harmony  flowed. 

And  now  did  the  portrait  a  twin-sister  seem 

To  the  figure  of  Geraldine  fair : 
With  the  same  sweet  expression  did  faithfully  teem 
Each  muscle,  each  feature ;  in  short,  not  a  gleam 

Was  lost  of  her  beautiful  hair. 


262 


THE  PAINT-KING. 


'T  was  the  Fairy  herself!  but,  alas,  her  blue  eyes 

Still  a  pupil  did  ruefully  lack ; 
And  who  shall  describe  the  terrific  surprise 
That  seized  the  Paint- King  when,  behold,  he  descries 

Not  a  speck  on  his  palette  of  black ! 

"  I  am  lost! "  said  the  fiend,  and  he  shook  like  a  leaf; 

When,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
He  saw  the  lost  pupils  of  Ellen,  with  grief, 
In  the  jaws  of  a  mouse,  and  the  sly  little  thief 

Whisk  away  from  his  sight  with  a  bound. 

"  I  am  lost ! "  said  the  Fiend,  and  he  fell  like  a  stone  ; 

Then  rising  the  Fairy  in  ire 
With  a  touch  of  her  finger  she  loosened  her  zone, 
(While  the  limbs  on  the  wall  gave  a  terrible  groan,) 

And  she  swelled  to  a  column  of  fire. 

Her  spear  now  a  thunderbolt  flashed  in  the  air, 

And  sulphur  the  vault  filled  around : 
She  smote  the  grim  monster ;  and  now  by  the  hair 
High-lifting,  she  hurled  him  in  speechless  despair 
Down  the  depths  of  the  chasm  profound. 

Then  over  the  picture  thrice  waving  her  spear, 
"  Come  forth !  "  said  the  good  Geraldine ; 
When,  behold,  from  the  canvas  descending,  appear 
Fair  Ellen,  in  person  more  lovely  than  e'er, 
With  grace  more  than  ever  divine ! 


263 


MYRTILLA. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  LADY,  WHO  LAMENTED  THAT  SHE  HAD  NEVER  BEEN 

IN  LOVE. 

"  Al  nuovo  giorno 
Pietosa  man  mi  sollevo/'  —  Metastasio. 

"  Ah  me !  how  sad,-'  Myrtilla  cried, 

"  To  waste  alone  my  years ! " 
While  o'er  a  streamlet's  flowery  side 
She  pensive  hung,  and  watched  the  tide 
That  dimpled  with  her  tears. 

"  The  world,  though  oft  to  merit  blind, 

Alas  !  I  cannot  blame  ; 
For  they  have  oft  the  knee  inclined, 
And  poured  the  sigh,  —  but,  like  the  wind 

Of  winter,  cold  it  came. 

"  Ah  no  !  neglect  I  cannot  rue." 

Then  o'er  the  limpid  stream 
She  cast  her  eyes  of  ether  blue ; 
Her  watery  eyes  looked  up  to  view 

Their  lovelier  parents'  beam. 


261 


MYRTILLA. 


And  ever  as  the  sad  lament 

Would  thus  her  lips  divide, 

Her  lips,  like  sister  roses  bent 

By  passing  gales,  elastic  sent 
Their  blushes  from  the  tide. 

While  mournful  o'er  her  pictured  face 

Did  then  her  glances  steal, 
She  seemed,  she  thought,  a  marble  Grace, 
To  enslave  with  love  the  human  race, 

But  ne'er  that  love  to  feel. 

"  Ah,  what  avail  those  eyes  replete 
With  charms  without  a  name ! 

Alas !  no  kindred  rays  they  meet, 

To  kindle  by  collision  sweet 
Of  mutual  love  the  flame ! 

"  O,  't  is  the  worst  of  cruel  things, 

This  solitary  state ! 
Yon  bird  that  trims  his  purple  wings, 
As  on  the  bending  bough  he  swings, 

Prepares  to  join  his  mate. 

"  The  little  glowworm  sheds  her  light, — 
Nor  sheds  her  light  in  vain,  — 

That  still  her  tiny  lover's  sight 

Amid  the  darkness  of  the  night 
May  trace  her  o'er  the  plain. 


MYRTILLA. 


"  All  living  nature  seems  to  move 

By  sympathy  divine,  — 
The  sea,  the  earth,  the  air  above  ; 
As  if  one  universal  love 

Did  all  their  hearts  entwine ! 

"  My  heart  alone  of  all  my  kind 

No  love  can  ever  warm : 
That  only  can  resemblance  find 
With  waste  Arabia,  where  the  wind 

Ne'er  breathes  on  human  form ; 

"  A  blank,  embodied  space,  that  knows 

No  changes  in  its  reign, 
Save  when  the  fierce  tornado  throws 
Its  barren  sands,  like  drifted  snows, 

In  ridges  o'er  the  plain." 

Thus  plained  the  maid ;  and  now  her  eyes 

Slow  lifting  from  the  tide, 
Their  liquid  orbs  with  sweet  surprise 
A  youth  beheld  in  ecstasies, 

Mute  standing  by  her  side. 

"  Forbear,  O  lovely  maid,  forbear!" 

The  youth  enamoured  cried, 
"  Nor  with  Arabia's  waste  compare 
The  heart  of  one  so  young  and  fair, 

To  every  charm  allied. 

23 


266 


MYRTILLA. 


"  Or,  if  Arabia,  —  rather  say, 

Where  some  delicious  spring 
Remurmurs  to  the  leaves  that  play 
'Mid  palm  and  date  and  floweret  gay 
On  zephyr's  frolic  wing. 

"  And  now,  methinks,  I  cannot  deem 

The  picture  else  but  true  ; 
For  I  a  wandering  traveller  seem 
O'er  life's  drear  waste,  without  a  gleam 

Of  hope,  —  if  not  in  you 

Thus  spake  the  youth ;  and  then  his  tongue 

Such  converse  sweet  distilled, 
It  seemed,  as  on  his  words  she  hung, 
As  though  a  heavenly  spirit  sung, 
And  all  her  soul  he  filled, 

He  told  her  of  his  cruel  fate, 

Condemned  alone  to  rove 
From  infancy  to  man's  estate, 
Though  courted  by  the  fair  and  great, 

Yet  never  once  to  love. 

And  then  from  many  a  poet's  page 
The  blest  reverse  he  proved,  — 
iJSow  syveet  to  pass  life's  pilgrimage, 
Prom  purple  youth  to  sere  old  age, 
Jiye  loving  and  beloved! 


MYRTILLA. 


267 


Here  ceased  the  youth ;  but  still  his  words 

Did  o'er  her  fancy  play ; 
They  seemed  the  matin-song  of  birds, 
Or  like  the  distant  low  of  herds 

That  welcomes  in  the  day. 

The  sympathetic  chord  she  feels 

Soft  thrilling  in  her  soul ; 
And,  as  the  sweet  vibration  steals 
Through  every  vein,  in  tender  peals 

She  seems  to  hear  it  roll. 

Her  altered  heart,  of  late  so  drear, 

Then  seemed  a  faery  land, 
Where  Nymphs  and  rosy  Loves  appear 
On  margin  green  of  fountain  clear, 

And  frolic  hand  in  hand. 

But  who  shall  paint  her  crimson  blush, 

Nor  think  his  hand  of  stone, 
As  now  the  secret  with  a  flush 
Did  o'er  her  aching  senses  rush,  — 
Her  heart  was  not  her  own  ! 

The  happy  Lindor,  with  a  look 

That  every  hope  confessed, 
Her  glowing  hand  exulting  took, 
And  pressed  it,  as  she  fearful  shook, 
In  silence  to  his  breast. 


MYRTILLA. 


Myrtilla  felt  the  spreading  flame, 
Yet  knew  not  how  to  chide  ; 
So  sweet  it  mantled  o'er  her  frame, 
That,  with  a  smile  of  pride  and  shame, 
She  owned  herself  his  bride. 

No  longer,  then,  ye  fair,  complain, 

And  call  the  Fates  unkind  ; 
The  high,  the  low,  the  meek,  the  vain, 
Shall  each  a  sympathetic  swain, 
Another  self,  shall  find. 


TO    A  LADY, 


WHO  SPOKE  SLIGHTINGLY  OF  POETS. 


O,  censure  not  the  Poet's  art, 
Nor  think  it  chills  the  feeling  heart 

To  love  the  gentle  Muses. 
Can  that  which  in  a  stone  or  flower, 
As  if  by  transmigrating  power, 

His  generous  soul  infuses;  — 

Can  that  for  social  joys  impair 
The  heart  that  like  the  liberal  air 

All  Nature's  self  embraces  ; 
That  in  the  cold  Norwegian  main, 
Or  'mid  the  tropic  hurricane, 

Her  varied  beauty  traces  ; 

That  in  her  meanest  work  can  find 
A  fitness  and  a  grace  combined 
In  blest,  harmonious  union  ; 


23* 


TO   A  LADY. 


That  even  with  the  cricket  holds, 
As  if  by  sympathy  of  souls, 
Mysterious  communion ; — 

Can  that  with  sordid  selfishness 
His  wide-expanded  heart  impress, 

Whose  consciousness  is  loving,  — 
Who,  giving  life  to  all  he  spies, 
His  joyous  being  multiplies, 

In  youthfulness  improving  ? 

O  Lady,  then,  fair  queen  of  earth, 
Thou  loveliest  of  mortal  birth, 

Spurn  not  thy  truest  lover ; 
Nor  censure  him  whose  keener  sense 
Can  feel  thy  magic  influence 

Where  naught  the  world  discover ; 

Whose  eye  on  that  bewitching  face 
Can  every  source  unnumbered  trace 

Of  germinating  blisses ; 
See  Sylphids  o'er  thy  forehead  weave 
The  lily-fibred  film,  and  leave 

It  fixed  with  honeyed  kisses  ; 

While  some  within  thy  liquid  eyes, 
Like  minnows  of  a  thousand  dyes 

Through  lucid  waters  glancing, 
In  busy  motion  to  and  fro, 
The  gems  of  diamond-beetles  sow, 

Their  lustre  thus  enhancing  ; 


TO    A  LADY. 


Here  some,  their  little  vases  filled 
With  blushes  for  thy  cheek  distilled 

From  roses  newly  blowing, 
Each  tiny  thirsting  pore  supply, 
And  some  in  quick  succession  by 

The  down  of  peaches  strowing ; 

There  others  who  from  hanging  bell 
Of  cowslip  caught  the  dew  that  fell 

While  yet  the  day  was  breaking, 
And  o'er  thy  pouting  lips  diffuse 
The  tincture,  —  still  its  glowing  hues 

Of  purple  morn  partaking  ; 

Here  some,  that  in  the  petals  pressed 
Of  humid  honeysuckles  rest, 

From  nightly  fog  defended, 
Flutter  their  fragrant  wings  between, 
Like  humming-birds  that  scarce  are  seen, 

They  seem  with  air  so  blended ; 

While  some,  in  equal  clusters  knit, 
On  either  side  in  circles  flit, 

Like  bees  in  April  swarming, 
Their  tiny  weight  each  other  lend, 
And  force  the  yielding  cheek  to  bend, 

Thy  laughing  dimples  forming. 

Nor,  Lady,  think  the  Poet's  eye 
Can  only  outward  charms  espy, 
Thy  form  alone  adoring.  — 


TO   A  LADY. 

Ah,  Lady,  no ;  though  fair  they  be, 
Yet  he  a  fairer  sight  may  see, 
Thy  lovely  soul  exploring : 

And,  while  from  part  to  part  it  flies 
The  gentle  Spirit  he  descries, 

Through  every  line  pursuing ; 
And  feels  upon  his  nature  shower 
That  pure,  that  humanizing  power, 

Which  raises  by  subduing. 


273 


SONNET 

ON  A  FALLING  GROUP  IN  THE  LAST  JUDGMENT  OP  MICHAEL  ANGELO, 
IN  THE  CAPPELLA  SISTINA. 


How  vast,  how  dread,  o'erwhelming,  is  the  thought 

Of  space  interminable !  to  the  soul 

A  circling  weight  that  crushes  into  naught 

Her  mighty  faculties !  a  wondrous  whole, 

Without  or  parts,  beginning,  or  an  end ! 

How  fearful,  then,  on  desperate  wings  to  send 

The  fancy  e'en  amid  the  waste  profound ! 

Yet,  bom  as  if  all  daring  to  astound, 

Thy  giant  hand,  O  Angelo,  hath  hurled 

E'en  human  forms,  with  all  their  mortal  weight, 

Down  the  dread  void,  —  fall  endless  as  their  fate  ! 

Already  now  they  seem  from  world  to  world 

For  ages  thrown ;  yet  doomed,  another  past, 

Another  still  to  reach,  nor  e'er  to  reach  the  last ! 


274 


SONNET 

ON  THE  GROUP  OF  THE  THREE  ANGELS  BEFORE  THE  TENT  OF  ABRA- 
HAM, BY  RAFFAELLE,  IN  THE  VATICAN. 


O,  now  I  feel  as  though  another  sense, 

From  heaven  descending,  had  informed  my  soul ; 

I  feel  the  pleasurable,  full  control 

Of  Grace,  harmonious,  boundless,  and  intense. 

In  thee,  celestial  Group,  embodied  lives 

The  subtile  mystery,  that  speaking  gives 

Itself  resolved ;  the  essences  combined 

Of  Motion  ceaseless,  Unity  complete. 

Borne  like  a  leaf  by  some  soft  eddying  wind, 

Mine  eyes,  impelled  as  by  enchantment  sweet, 

From  part  to  part  with  circling  motion  rove, 

Yet  seem  unconscious  of  the  power  to  move ; 

From  line  to  line  through  endless  changes  run, 

O'er  countless  shapes,  yet  seem  to  gaze  on  One. 


275 


SONNET 


ON  SEEING  THE  PICTURE  OF  yEOLUS  BY  PELLIGRINO  TIBALDI,  IN  THE 
INSTITUTE  AT  BOLOGNA. 


Full  well,  Tibaldi,  did  thy  kindred  mind 

The  mighty  spell  of  Buonarroti  own. 

Like  one  who,  reading  magic  words,  receives 

The  gift  of  intercourse  with  worlds  unknown, 

'T  was  thine,  deciphering  Nature's  mystic  leaves, 

To  hold  strange  converse  with  the  viewless  wind  ; 

To  see  the  Spirits,  in  embodied  forms, 

Of  gales  and  whirlwinds,  hurricanes  and  storms. 

For,  lo !  obedient  to  thy  bidding,  teems 

Fierce  into  shape  their  stern,  relentless  Lord : 

His  form  of  motion  ever-restless  seems ; 

Or,  if  to  rest  inclined  his  turbid  soul, 

On  Hecla's  top  to  stretch,  and  give  the  word 

To  subject  Winds  that  sweep  the  desert  pole. 


276 


SONNET 


ON  REMBRANDT;   OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  PICTURE  OF  JACOB'S  DREAM. 


As  in  that  twilight,  superstitious  age 

When  all  beyond  the  narrow  grasp  of  mind 

Seemed  fraught  with  meanings  of  supernal  kind, 

"When  e'en  the  learned,  philosophic  sage, 

Wont  with  the  stars  through  boundless  space  to  range, 

Listened  with  reverence  to  the  changeling's  tale  ;  — 

E'en  so,  thou  strangest  of  all  beings  strange ! 

E'en  so  thy  visionary  scenes  I  hail ; 

That,  like  the  rambling  of  an  idiot's  speech, 

No  image  giving  of  a  thing  on  earth, 

Nor  thought  significant  in  Reason's  reach, 

Yet  in  their  random  shadowings  give  birth 

To  thoughts  and  things  from  other  worlds  that  come, 

And  fill  the  soul,  and  strike  the  reason  dumb. 


277 


SONNET 


ON  THE  LUXEMBOURG  GALLERY. 


There  is  a  charm  no  vulgar  mind  can  reach, 
No  critic  thwart,  no  mighty  master  teach ; 
A  charm  how  mingled  of  the  good  and  ill! 
Yet  still  so  mingled  that  the  mystic  whole 
Shall  captive  hold  the  straggling  gazer's  will, 
Till  vanquished  reason  own  its  full  control. 
And  such,  O  Rubens,  thy  mysterious  art, 
The  charm  that  vexes,  yet  enslaves  the  heart! 
Thy  lawless  style,  from  timid  systems  free, 
Impetuous  rolling  like  a  troubled  sea, 
High  o'er  the  rocks  of  reason's  lofty  verge 
Impending  hangs ;  yet,  ere  the  foaming  surge 
Breaks  o'er  the  bound,  the  refluent  ebb  of  taste 
Back  from  the  shore  impels  the  watery  waste. 


24 


2/8 


S  O  N  N  E  T 


TO  MY  VENERABLE  FRIEND,  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY 


From  one  unused  in  pomp  of  words  to  raise 
A  courtly  monument  of  empty  praise, 
Where  self,  transpiring  through  the  flimsy  pile, 
Betrays  the  builder's  ostentatious  guile, 
Accept,  O  West,  these  unaffected  lays, 
Which  genius  claims  and  grateful  justice  pays. 
Still  green  in  age,  thy  vigorous  powers  impart 
The  youthful  freshness  of  a  blameless  heart : 
For  thine,  unaided  by  another's  pain, 
The  wiles  of  envy,  or  the  sordid  train 
Of  selfishness,  has  been  the  manly  race 
Of  one  who  felt  the  purifying  grace 
Of  honest  fame ;  nor  found  the  effort  vain 
E'en  for  itself  to  love  thy  soul-ennobling  art. 


279 


THE  MAD  LOVER 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 


Stay,  gentle  stranger,  softly  tread ! 

O,  trouble  not  this  hallowed  heap! 
Vile  Envy  says  my  Julia 's  dead ; 

But  Envy  thus  will  never  sleep. 

Ye  creeping  Zephyrs,  hist  you,  pray, ' 
Nor  press  so  hard  yon  withered  leaves  ; 

For  Julia  sleeps  beneath  this  clay,  — 
Nay,  feel  it,  how  her  bosom  heaves ! 

O,  she  was  purer  than  the  stream 
That  saw  the  first-created  morn  ; 

Her  words  were  like  a  sick  man's  dream 
That  nerves  with  health  a  heart  forlorn. 

And  who  their  lot  would  hapless  deem, 
Those  lovely,  speaking  lips  to  view,  — 

That  light  between,  like  rays  that  beam 
Through  sister  clouds  of  rosy  hue  ? 


280 


THE   MAD  LOVER. 


Yet  these  were  to  her  fairer  soul 
But  as  yon  opening  clouds  on  high 

To  glorious  worlds  that  o'er  them  roll, 
The  portals  to  a  brighter  sky. 

And  shall  the  glutton  worm  defile 

This  spotless  tenement  of  love, 
That  like  a  playful  infant's  smile 

Seemed  born  of  purest  light  above  ? 

And  yet  I  saw  the  sable  pall 

Dark-trailing  o'er  the  broken  ground,  — 
The  earth  did  on  her  coffin  fall, — 

I  heard  the  heavy,  hollow  sound. 

Avaunt,  thou  Fiend !  nor  tempt  my  brain 

With  thoughts  of  madness  brought  from  hell ! 

No  woe  like  this  of  all  her  train 
Has  Memory  in  her  blackest  cell. 

'T  is  all  a  tale  of  fiendish  art, — 

Thou  com'st,  my  love,  to  prove  it  so ! 

I  '11  press  thy  hand  upon  my  heart,  — 
It  chills  me  like  a  hand  of  snow ! 

Thine  eyes  are  glazed,  thy  cheeks  are  pale, 

Thy  lips  are  livid,  and  thy  breath 
Too  truly  tells  the  dreadful  tale,  — 

Thou  comest  from  the1  house  of  death! 


THE   MAD  LOVER. 

O,  speak,  beloved !  lest  I  rave  ; 

The  fatal  truth  I  '11  bravely  meet, 
And  I  will  follow  to  the  grave, 

And  wrap  me  in  thy  winding-sheet. 


24* 


282 


FIRST  LOVE. 

A  BALLAD  * 


Ah  me!  how  hard  the  task  to  bear, 
The  weight  of  ills  we  know ! 

But  harder  still  to  dry  the  tear 

That  mourns  a  nameless  woe. 


If  by  the  side  of  Lucy's  wheel 

I  sit  to  see  her  spin, 
My  head  around  begins  to  reel, 

My  heart  to  beat  within. 

Or  when  on  harvest  holiday 
I  lead  the  dance  along, 

If  Lucy  chance  to  cross  my  way, 
So  sure  she  leads  me  wrong. 


*  This  and  the  two  following  hallads  were  written  at  a  very  early  age 
and  have  already  appeared  in  some  of  the  periodical  works  of  their  day. 


FIRST  LOVE. 


283 


If  I  attempt  the  pipe  to  play, 
And  catch  my  Lucy's  eye, 

The  trembling  music  dies  away, 
And  melts  into  a  sigh. 

Where'er  I  go,  where'er  I  turn, 
If  Lucy  there  be  found, 

I  seem  to  shiver,  yet  I  burn,  — 

My  head  goes  swimming  round. 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  smile, 
Unless  she  smile  on  me  ; 

And  if  she  frown,  I  sigh  the  while, 
But  know  not  whence  it  be. 

Ah,  what  have  I  to  Lucy  done 
To  cause  me  so  much  stir  ? 

From  rising  to  the  setting  sun 
I  sigh  and  think  of  her. 

In  vain  I  strive  to  join  the  throng 
In  social  mirth  and  ease ; 

Now  lonely  woods  I  stray  among, 
For  only  woods  can  please. 

Ah  me !  this  restless  heart  I  fear 

Will  never  be  at  rest, 
Till  Lucy  cease  to  live,  or  tear 

Her  image  from  my  breast. 


284 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


"  O,  had  I  Colin's  winning  ease," 
Said  Lindor  with  a  sigh, 

"  So  carelessly  ordained  to  please, 
I 'd  every  care  defy. 

"  If  Colin  but  for  Daphne's  hair 
A  simple  garland  weave, 

He  gives  it  with  so  sweet  an  air 
He  seems  a  crown  to  give. 

"  But,  though  I  cull  the  fairest  flower 
That  decks  the  breast  of  spring, 

And  posies  from  the  woodland  bower 
For  Daphne's  bosom  bring, 

"  When  I  attempt  to  give  the  fair, 
With  many  a  speech  in  store, 

My  half-formed  words  dissolve  in  air, 
I  blush,  and  dare  no  more. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


285 


"  And  shall  I,  then,  expect  a  smile 
From  Daphne  on  rny  love, 

When  every  word  and  look  the  while 
My  clownish  weakness  prove  ? 

"  Oft  at  the  close  of  summer  day, 
When  Daphne  wandered  by, 

I 've  left  my  little  flock  astray, 
And  followed  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yet,  fearing  to  approach  too  near, 

I  lingered  far  behind  ; 
And,  lest  my  step  should  reach  her  ear, 

I  shook  at  every  wind. 

"  How  happy,  then,  must  Colin  be, 
Who  never  knew  this  fear,  — 

Whose  sweet  address  at  liberty 
Commands  the  fair  one's  ear ! 

"  A  smile,  a  tear,  a  word,  a  sigh, 

Stand  ready  at  his  call ; 
In  me  unknown  they  live  and  die, 

Who  have  and  feel  them  all." 

Ah,  simple  swain,  how  little  knows 
The  love-sick  mind  to  scan 

Those  gifts  which  real  love  bestows 
To  mark  the  favored  man ! 


286 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Secure,  let  fluent  parrots  feign 
The  music  of  the  dove; 

'T  is  only  in  the  eye  may  reign 
The  eloquence  of  love. 


287 


WILL,  THE  MANIAC. 

A  BALLAD. 


Hark  !  what  wild  sound  is  on  the  breeze  ? 

'T  is  Will,  at  evening  fall 
Who  sings  to  yonder  waving  trees, 

That  shade  his  prison-wall. 

Poor  Will  was  once  the  gayest  swain 
At  village  dance  was  seen ; 

No  freer  heart  of  wicked  stain 

E'er  tripped  the  moonlight  green. 

His  flock  was  all  his  humble  pride, 

A  finer  ne'er  was  shorn ; 
And  only  when  a  lambkin  died 

Had  Will  a  cause  to  mourn. 

But  now  poor  William's  brain  is  turned, 
He  knows  no  more  his  flock ; 

For  when  I  asked  "  if  them  he  mourned," 
He  mocked  the  village  cock. 


WILL,  THE  MANIAC. 

No,  William  does  not  mourn  his  fold, 
Though  tenantless  and  drear  ; 

Some  say,  a  love  he  never  told 
Did  crush  his  heart  with  fear. 

And  she,  't  is  said,  for  whom  he  pined 

Was  heiress  of  the  land, 
A  lovely  lady,  pure  of  mind, 

Of  open  heart  and  hand. 

And  others  tell,  as  hoiv  he  strove 

To  win  the  noble  fair, 
Who,  scornful,  jeered  his  simple  love, 

And  left  him  to  despair. 

Will  wandered  then  amid  the  rocks 
Through  all  the  livelong  day, 

And  oft  would  creep  where  bursting  shocks 
Had  rent  the  earth  away. 

He  loved  to  delve  the  darksome  dell, 

Where  never  pierced  a  ray, 
There  to  the  wailing  night-bird  tell, 

"  How  love  was  turned  to  clay." 

And  oft  upon  yon  craggy  mount, 

Where  threatening  cliffs  hang  high, 

Have  I  observed  him  stop  to  count 
With  fixless  stare  the  sky ; 


WILL,  THE  MANIAC. 

Then  to  himself,  in  murmurs  low, 
Repeating,  as  he  wound 

Along  the  mountain's  woody  brow, 
Till  lost  was  every  sound. 

But  soon  he  went  so  wild  astray, 
His  kindred  ached  to  see ; 

And  now,  secluded  from  the  day, 
In  yonder  cell  is  he. 


290 


AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN.* 


All  hail !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  Fathers'  native  soil ! 
O,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ! 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 


The  Genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 

Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 

*  Written  in  America,  in  the  year  1810,  and  in  1817  inserted  by  Cole- 
ridge in  the  first  edition  of  his  "  Sibylline  Leaves,"  with  the  following 
note :  —  "  This  poem,  written  by  an  American  gentleman,  a  valued  and 
dear  friend,  I  communicate  to  the  reader  for  its  moral,  no  less  than  its 
poetic  spirit." — Editor. 


AMERICA  TO   GREAT   BRITAIN.  291 

With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine,  — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  milky-way  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  past 

Since  our  Fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host;  — 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet. 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ;  — 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts. 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, — 

Between  let  Ocean  roll, 


292 


AMERICA   TO   GREAT  BRITAIN. 


Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun : 
Yet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
«  We  are  One."  * 


*  Note  by  the  Author.  —  This  alludes  merely  to  the  moral  union  of  the 
two  countries.  The  author  would  not  have  it  supposed  that  the  tribute  of 
respect,  offered  in  these  stanzas  to  the  land  of  his  ancestors,  would  he  paid 
by  him,  if  at  the  expense  of  the  independence  of  that  which  gave  him 
birth. 


293 


WRITTEN  IN  SPRING/ 


This  gentle  breath  which  eddies  round  my  cheek, — 

This  respiration  of  the  waking  spring, — 
How  eloquently  sweet  it  seems  to  speak 

Of  hope  and  joy  to  every  living  thing! 
To  every  ?  —  No,  it  speaks  not  thus  to  all 

Alike  of  hope ;  where  misery  gnaws  the  heart, 
Her  gentle  breathings  on  the  senses  fall 

Like  hateful  thoughts  that  make  the  memory  start. 
The  soul  grows  selfish  where  enjoyment  flies, 

And,  loathing,  curses  what  it  cannot  taste ; 
This  glorious  sun,  and  yon  blue,  blessed  skies, 

And  this  green  earth,  but  tell  him  of  the  past; 
The  frightful  past,  that  other  name  for  death, 

That,  when  recalled,  like  mocking  spectres  come,  — 
In  forms  of  life,  without  the  living  breath, 

Like  things  that  speak,  yet  organless  and  dumb ! 
For  all  that  seems  in  this  fair  world  to  live, 

To  live  to  man,  must  catch  the  quickening  ray 


*  First  printed  in  1821,  in  "  The  Idle  Man."  No.  I ,  p.  54. 


294  WRITTEN   IN  SPRING. 

From  man's  free  soul ;  and  they  but  freely  give 

Back  unto  him  the  life  he  gave ;  for  they 
Are  dead  to  him  who  lives  not  unto  them. 

But  unto  him,  whose  happy  soul  reposes 
In  love's  sw^eet  dream,  how  exquisite  a  gem 

Seems  every  dewdrop  on  these  budding  roses ! 
The  humblest  plant  that  sprouts  beneath  his  feet, 

The  ragged  brier,  nay,  e'en  the  common  grass, 
Within  that  soul  a  kindred  image  meet, 

As  if  reflected  from  an  answering  glass. 
And  how  they  seem  by  sympathy  to  lend 

Their  youthful  freshness  to  each  rising  thought, 
As  if  the  mind  had  just  begun  to  send 

Her  faculties  abroad,  uncurbed,  untaught, 
From  all  in  nature  beautiful  and  fair 

To  build  her  splendid  fabrics,  while  the  heart, 
Itself  deluding,  seems  by  magic  rare 

To  give  a  substance  to  each  airy  part. 
Sweet  age  of  first  impressions !  free  and  light ! 

When  all  the  senses,  like  triumphal  ports, 
Did  let  into  the  soul,  by  day,  by  night, 

The  gorgeous  pageants  pouring  from  the  courts 
Of  Nature's  vast  dominions !  —  substance  then 

To  the  heart's  faith ;  but,  now  that  youth's  bright  dawn 
No  longer  shines,  they  flit  like  shadowy  men 

That  walk  on  ceilings ;  for  the  light  is  gone  ! 
Yet  no,  —  not  gone ;  for  unto  him  that  loves, 

The  heart  is  youthful  and  the  faith  is  strong; 
And  be  it  love,  or  be  it  youth,  that  moves 

The  soul  to  joy,  that  light  will  live  as  long. 
And,  O,  how  blest  this  kind  reacting  law, 

That  the  young  heart,  with  Nature's  beauties  glowing, 


WRITTEN   IN  SPRING. 


295 


Should  need,  in  all  it  felt,  in  all  it  saw, 
Another  heart  to  share  its  overflowing ; 

While  he  that  feels  the  pure  expansive  power 
Of  joyous  love,  must  pour  his  feelings  forth 

On  every  tree,  and  herb,  and  fragrant  flower, 
And  all  that  grows  upon  the  beauteous  earth. 


296 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


"To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given." 


PART  I. 

In  days  long  past,  within  a  lonely  wood, 
Far  from  the  sound  of  levelling  axe,  there  stood 
A  stately  Oak,  that  seemed  itself  a  grove ; 
And  near  it  grew,  entwining  shade  with  shade, 
A  slender  Ash,  that  with  his  branches  played, 
Though  oft  at  noon,  all-motionless  with  love, 
'T  would  lean  upon  his  breast,  as 't  were  a  gentle  maid. 

And  swift  beneath  a  little  brook  there  ran, 
Like  some  wild  creature  from  the  face  of  man, 
So  swiftly  did  it  run  with  smothered  voice ; 
Nor  ever  was  it  heard,  save  only  where 
Some  thwarting  pebble  sent  upon  the  air 
Its  tiny  moan  ;  or  when 't  was  wont  rejoice 
For  wandering  root  o'erleaped,  that  checked  its  scared 
career. 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE   NIGHTINGALE.  297 

But  near  these  loving  trees  no  other  grew ; 
For,  made  as  if  for  love,  kind  Nature  threw 
Around  them  far  a  zone  of  soft,  white  sand, 
Whose  very  touch  nor  plant  nor  hardy  brier 
Might  e'er  abide,  so  scorching  was  the  fire 
That  lurked  within ;  yet  round  this  charmed  band 
Still  many  a  tree  and  shrub  would  press,  in  strange  desire. 

In  sooth  it  was  a  rare  and  lovely  sight, 
This  quiet  sylvan  moon,  so  meekly  bright ; 
For  such  might  seem  to  musing  bard  the  scene  ; 
A  spot  where  Peace,  with  all  her  gentle  train 
Of  blending  sympathies,  might  ever  reign : 
And  cold  were  he  on  whom  its  dreamy  sheen 
Within  that  dark  green  wood  shall  ever  fall  in  vain. 

Nor  unbeloved  was  this  secluded  place 
By  some  of  better  world  and  higher  race. 
And  here,  't  was  said,  a  heavenly  Stranger  came, 
If  haply  he  might  find  some  heart  content 
With  Nature's  will ;  that  would  not  murmur  vent 
For  boon  withheld  of  beauty  or  of  fame, 
Or  pine  for  aught  of  good  to  other  creatures  sent. 

Beneath  that  stately  Oak  this  Stranger  kept 
His  daily  watch,  and  there,  too,  had  he  slept, 
The  Ash  had  fanned  the  nightly  mist  away. 
But  not,  as  we,  do  Spirits  need  that  charm, 
That  sweet  self-losing,  that  doth  oft  disarm 
The  robber  grief,  bid  misery  gaunt  be  gay, 
And  hate,  that  cold  heart-worm,  make  powerless  to 
harm. 


298  THE  ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Such  self-oblivion  would  not  him  beseem, 
Of  whose  least  passing  thought  no  youthful  dream 
Of  man's  Elysium  might  an  image  give. 
The  Good  and  Beautiful  in  him  were  joined ; 
Their  conscious  union  made  his  happy  mind ; 
And,  ever  as  they  moved,  fair  forms  would  live, 
And  sweet  according  sounds  through  all  his  being  wind. 

'T  was  on  a  soft  June  evening,  — when  the  sun 
Was  just  below  the  wood,  and,  one  by  one, 
Seemed  through  the  trees  to  call  his  wandering  rays, — 
That  two  young  Birds,  within  a  hazel-bush, 
This  converse  held.    Said  one,  a  lively  Thrush,  — 
"  I  hardly  may  deserve  this  strain  of  praise ; 
Such  praise,  were  I  a  maid,  would  surely  make  me  blush ; 

"'T  is  verily  too  high,"  —  and  here  she  ducked 
Her  pretty  head  beneath  a  wing,  and  clucked 
Like  to  a  timid  hen,  —  "  too  high  indeed 
From  one  of  lineage  so  renowned  in  song ; 
Though  thou,  I  must  confess,  dost  scarce  belong 
To  that  proud  race,  that  rarely  deign  to  heed 
Aught  but  their  own  vain  throats,  though  ne'er  so  sweet 
or  strong." 

"  Nay,"  said  a  gentle  voice,  whose  gurgling  tone 
None  but  the  Nightingale  might  ever  own, 
"  My  praise  is  just :  nor  can  I  well  divine 
Why  my  own  native  gift  should  make  me  blind 
To  other  gifts,  though  differing  wide  in  kind. 
'T  were  to  be  poor  indeed,  if  but  in  mine 
My  solitary  heart  may  pleasure  never  find. 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


299 


"  And  much  I  marvel  if,  in  truth,  there  be 
A  heart  so  stricken  with  its  own.    For  me,  — 
O,  what  a  prison-house  such  narrow  doom ! 
I  know  not  why,  —  but  peace  within  me  dwells 
Whene'er  I  hear  yon  distant  chiming  bells, 
That  have  no  life ;  nor  comes  there  aught  of  gloom, 
If  heard  the  runnel's  song,  within  the  darkest  dells. 

"  But  when  from  living  creatures  warm  with  blood, 
When  from  the  countless  tribes  that  haunt  this  wood, 
The  morning  song  of  waking  joy  goes  up, 
O,  how  doth  leap  my  pulse,  my  spirits  bound ! 
The  many-mingled  notes  one  only  sound 
Send  to  my  heart,  —  as  gathered  in  a  drop,  — 
From  swift,  high-soaring   larks'  to  sparrows'  on  the 
ground." 

u  I  '11  seek  no  more,"  the  Stranger  said  in  thought; 
"  In  this  sweet  Bird  is  all  that  I  have  sought." 
And  then  —  so  willed  he  in  his  heavenly  mind  — 
The  little,  wondering  Bird  before  him  flew, 
And,  fluttering  round  and  round,  her  wonder  grew 
To  see  his  wings,  now  floating  on  the  wind, 
And  now  to  air  exhaled  and  mingled  with  its  blue. 

And  then  she  marvelled  at  his  waving  locks, 
That  gleamed  like  sunshine  over  running  brooks. 
But,  when  upon  her  turned  his  lustrous  eyes, 
With  silent  awe  she  seemed  transfixed  to  stand, 
The  while  she  felt  her  little  breast  expand 
As  if  with  something  that  would  reach  the  skies,  — 
So  full  they  were  of  love,  so  beautifully  bland. 


300 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


"  Sweet  Bird  of  eve,  thy  fate  is  now  with  me, 
And  thou  my  chosen  Bird  henceforth  shalt  be ; 
And  I  will  bless  thee.    But  I  may  not  say 
Why  thus  I  choose  thee  ;  for  a  virtue  eyed 
Too  often  in  the  heart  may  turn  to  pride, 
And  then  with  cold  self-love  that  heart  betray 
To  hard,  contracting  thoughts,  that  curse  where  they 
abide." 

So  spake  the  guardian  Angel ;  then  aloft 
His  wings,  now  visible,  with  heaving  soft, 
That  made  mysterious  music,  fanned  the  air, 
And  now  the  clouds,  self-parting,  downward  sent 
A  rosy  dew,  that  all  the  earth  besprent ; 
While,  upward  as  he  passed,  the  stars  did  wear 
A  thousand  gorgeous  hues  that  from  his  glory  went. 

"  No,  never,"  said  the  Bird,  "  may  thought  of  pride 
This  glorious  Being  from  my  fate  divide ; 
But  rather  let  my  heart  still  humbler  be, 
That  one  so  high  should  deign  a  thought  bestow 
On  one  so  poor :  and  this  alone  to  know, 
Betide  what  may,  were  bliss  enough  for  me. 
O,  how  with  such  a  boon  can  mix  a  passion  low ! " 

And  now,  as  one  by  crowding  joys  oppressed, 
The  happy  Bird  in  silence  sought  her  nest, 
That  lay  embosomed  in  the  spreading  Oak. 
Then,  O,  how  sweetly  closed  —  like  closing  flowers 
That  fold  their  petals  from  the  nightly  showers  — 
Her  senses  all !    Nor  aught  their  slumber  broke 
Till  came  the  sun  betimes  to  wake  the  morning  hours. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


301 


PART  II. 

In  childhood's  dawn  what  bliss  it  is  to  live, 
To  breathe,  to  move,  and  to  the  senses  give 
Their  first  fresh  travel  o'er  this  glorious  Earth  ! 
Yet  still  of  earth  we  seem,  and  all  we  see 
But  kindred  things  in  other  shapes  to  be ; 
Nor  knows  the  soul  her  own  distinctive  birth 
Till  some  deep  inward  joy  from  sense  hath  made  her 
free. 

And,  when  in  after  years  she  feels  the  press 
From  things  without,  —  and  not  as  once  to  bless, 
But;  forming  bondage,  while  the  quick,  sore  sense 
Of  freedom  still  survives,  —  O,  then,  how  sweet 
Again  within  one  pure  heart-joy  to  greet, 
And  feel  it  cause  our  very  bonds  dispense 
Harmonious  thoughts,  that  make  the  Soul  and  world  to 
meet! 

E'en  such  the  charm  the  Angel's  parting  word 
Left  in  the  bosom  of  our  gentle  Bird. 
And,  though  too  blest  her  morn  of  life  had  been 
To  know  of  clouding  grief  one  fleeting  shade, 
Yet,  O,  in  what  surpassing  light  arrayed 
Seemed  nature  now !    'T  was  but  the  light  within 
That  ever  from  the  heart  on  all  around  her  played. 
26 


302  THE   ANGEL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

She  loved  the  world  so  lovely  she  had  made. 
And  well  the  grateful  world  the  gift  repaid: 
Its  all  was  hers  ;  for  e'en  the  tiny  moan 
That  came  so  faintly  from  the  brook  beneath 
Now  seemed  her  breast  to  heave,  and  forth  to  breathe, 
And  blend  in  deeper  sadness  with  her  own. 
No,  never  round  the  heart  did  sadder  murmur  wreathe. 

So  time  went  on,  and  tributary  strains 
From  hill  and  dale,  and  from  the  breezy  plains, 
Came  pouring  all,  to  lose  themselves  in  her. 
Then,  lost  in  ecstasy,  how  all  night  long 
Her  own  sweet  tribe  would  sit  to  hear  her  song ! 
Sure  ne'er  was  known  such  soul-dissolving  stir 
In  soft  Italia's  courts,  her  melting  race  among. 

Then  went  her  fame  abroad  ;  and  from  the  sea, 
And  from  the  far-off  isles,  wherever  tree 
Gave  shelter  to  the  wing, — from  every  clime 
Endeared  to  bird,  or  where  the  spicy  grove 
Embalms  the  gale,  or  where,  the  clouds  above, 
The  mountain  pine  stands  sentry  over  time,  — 
The  winged  pilgrims  came,  —  for  fashion,  or  for  love. 

And  now  the  wondering  moon  would  see  her  light 
Flash  on  the  eagle  in  his  downward  flight, 
Bending  his  conquered  majesty  to  Song ; 
And  then  afar  along  the  snowy  host 
Of  albatross,  from  off  the  stormy  coast 
Of  dreary  Horn,  that  veered  the  clouds  among, 
Like  to  a  gallant  fleet  by  ocean-tempest  tost ; 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


303 


And  then  it  seemed,  in  one  vast,  jagged  sheet, 
Some  rising  thunder-cloud's  broad  breast  to  meet, 
Upheaving  heavily  above  the  sea ; 
But  soon  the  seeming  tempest  nearer  drew ; 
And  then  it  broke :  then  how  his  files  to  view 
The  Western  chieftain  wheeled,  —  how  loftily  !  — 
The  mighty  winged  prince,  the  condor  of  Peru. 

But  who  describe  the  ever-growing  throng, 
Of  warring  note  and  plume,  that  poured  along 
The  tracts  of  air ;  or  how  the  welkin  rung, 
As  onward,  like  the  crackling  rush  of  flame, 
With  flap,  and  whiz,  and  whirr  of  wings,  they  came  ? 
But  hushed  again  was  all ;  nor  wing  nor  tongue 
Stirred  in  the  charmed  air  that  breathed  the  Bird  of 
fame. 

Nor  easy  were  the  task  in  words  to  paint 
The  congregated  mass,  of  forms  so  quaint, 
So  wild  and  fierce  and  beautiful,  that  now, 
Together  mixed,  o'erspread  the  enchanted  wood. 
Suffice  to  say,  that  gentler  crowd  ne'er  stood 
In  princely  hall,  where  all  is  smile  and  bow. 
In  sooth,  our  polished  birds  were  quite  as  true  and  good. 

As  if  of  ancient  feud  each  breast  bereft, 
Or  haply  each  at  home  its  feud  had  left, 
A  high-bred  sympathy  here  seemed  to  wend 
Its  oily  way,  and,  like  a  summer  stream, 
Made  all  that  on  it  looked  more  lovely  seem. 
So  all  were  pleased,  as  gently  each  did  bend 
To  see  so  smooth  and  bright  his  mirrored  image  beam. 


3:4 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


Then  side  by  side  were  seen  the  tiny  form 
Of  wizard  petrel,  brewer  of  the  storm, 
And  giant  ostrich  from  Zahara's  plain ; 
Next  the  fierce  hawk,  the  robber  of  the  skies, 
With  gentle  dove,  of  soft,  beseeching  eyes ; 
And  there,  from  Belgian  fen,  the  bowing  crane, 
And  dainty  Eastern  queen,  the  bird  of  Paradise. 

Yet  one  there  was  that  seemed  with  none  to  pair, 
But  rather  like  a  flower  that  grew  in  air, 
Which  ever  and  anon,  as  there  it  stood, 
Would  ope  its  petal  to  the  passing  gale, 
And  then,  with  fitful  gleam,  its  hues  exhale,  — 
The  little  humming-bird.    So  Fortune  wooed 
Seems  to  the  dreaming  Bard  ;  so  bright,  —  so  dim,  —  so 
frail ! 

'T  was  passing  faith,  I  ween,  such  sight  to  see, — 
These  strange  and  motley  tribes  as  one  agree ; 
But  one  the  power  that  hither  bade  them  hie,  — 
The  magic  power  of  Song:  though  some  would  fain 
The  motive  deem  but  hope  of  fame  to  gain 
For  taste  refined  ;  — and  what  beneath  the  sky 
Could  harden  e'er  the  heart  to  self-applauding  strain  ? 

Ah,  darling  self!  what  transformations  come 
Aye  at  thy  bidding,  —  eloquent  or  dumb, 
Or  loose  or  pure,  as  might  beseem  the  time ! 
E'en  as  with  man,  in  purple  or  in  cowl, 
So  with  the  feathered  race :  hence  many  an  owl 
Hath  doffed  his  mousing  mien  for  look  sublime, 
And  ruffian  vulture  smoothed  to  peace  his  bloody  scowl. 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


PART  III. 

Who  reaches  fame  attains  that  dizzy  height 
Where  seldom  foot  is  sure,  or  sure  the  sight : 
So  runs  the  adage.    Yet  we  deem  not  so. 
Who  reach  it  worthily  still  higher  aim, 
And,  looking  upward,  steadfast  stand  the  same. 
But  woe  to  him,  self-pleased,  who  looks  below, 
To  measure  in  his  pride  the  fearful  way  he  came ! 

And  what  is  genius  but  the  gift  to  see 
Supernal  Excellence,  that  aye  doth  flee 
The  grasp  of  man,  yet  ever  still  in  view 
To  lead  him  on,  revealing  as  it  flies 
Ideal  forms,  at  every  step  that  rise 
And  crowd  his  path  with  beauty  ever  new  ? 
O,  who  of  self  could  think  with  these  before  his  eyes  ? 

No,  —  rather  would  he  deem  a  thing  of  clay 
Were  thus  too  blest  to  dream  itself  away. 
So  felt  our  favored  Bird,  so  passed  her  days, 
Nor  e'en  did  fame  one  anxious  thought  awake ; 
She  prized  it  never  for  its  own  vain  sake ; 
Yet  well  she  loved  at  that  pure  fount  of  praise, 
A  sympathizing  heart,  her  nature's  thirst  to  slake. 
26  * 


306  THE  ANGEL   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

And,  truth  to  say,  her  gentle  spirit  rose 
And  grew  in  strength  from  each  applauded  close. 
Ah  no !  not  hers  the  art,  —  if  such  there  be,  — 
Herself  unmoved,  another's  breast  to  sway : 
And  well  she  proved  that  truth  will  truth  repay, 
As  now  to  hers,  as 't  were  a  mighty  sea, 
A  thousand  heaving  hearts  sent  up  their  joyous  spray. 

Now  from  his  throne  of  light  the  Angel  bent 
Towards  Earth  his  ear,  if  unaware  were  blent 
In  these  applauded  strains  one  gush  of  pride. 
And  then  he  smiled,  as  angels  on  a  child 
Are  wont  to  smile ;  upon  her  heart  he  smiled ; 
For,  no,  not  one  small  spot  was  there  descried, 
Left  by  the  breath  of  praise,  —  so  treacherously  mild. 

Well  pleased  he  saw,  unsoiled  of  earthly  stain, 
His  high  creative  gift  still  pure  remain, 
E'en  as  he  gave  it  from  the  world  above ; 
For  he  had  marked  her  in  her  glory's  blaze, 
And  seen  the  grateful  Bird  to  heaven  upraise 
Her  glittering  eyes,  in  meek,  adoring  love : 
And  well  in  them  he  read,  "  No,  never  mine  the 
praise." 

"  Thus  far,  sweet  Bird,  thy  life  of  joy  is  pure. 
'T  is  now  thy  lot  to  suffer  and  endure ; 
For  now  await  thee  other  scenes,  to  try 
And  prove  thee  true.    But  Love  the  change  ordains, 
That  Love  that  never  sleeps  where  Evil  reigns, 
Bending  his  hateful  rule  to  purpose  high, 
Till,  sin  by  sin  consumed,  the  good  alone  remains." 


THE    ANGEL   AND   THE    NIGHTINGALE.  ;}()7 

So,  musing,  spake  in  thought  her  Angel  friend. 
And  now  again  to  Earth  our  course  we  bend. 
But  here,  alas !  in  silent  pain  awhile 
Our  tale  would  pause  ;  for  sad  it  were  to  trace 
The  fall  of  greatness  in  our  human  race, 
But  sadder  here,  where  no  ambitious  guile, 
Or  thought  of  glory  won  by  others'  loss,  had  place. 

'T  were  but  to  tell  how  troop  by  troop  fell  off" 
Of  courtly  friends,  with  loud  and  open  scoff, 
Or  secret  sneer,  the  vice  of  meaner  heart ; 
The  envious  these.    But  most,  they  knew  not  why, 
Went  as  they  came,  or  else  to  roll  the  eye 
As  others  did,  or  play  the  patron's  part, 
And  buy  at  second  hand  cheap  immortality. 

Yet  some  there  were,  —  a  scattered,  kindly  few, 
Who  felt,  and  loved,  the  beautiful  and  true,  — 
Awhile  did  linger  in  the  saddened  wrood, 
Where  now  nor  song,  nor  other  sound,  was  heard, 
Save  when  the  night-hawk  thro'  the  darkness  whirred. 
At  length  'gan  these  to  pine  for  present  good, 
And  left,  as  in  the  past,  our  solitary  Bird. 

But  whence  the  change?    Some  unknown  Power, 
't  is  said, 

And  strong  as  dark,  had  on  her  fortunes  laid 
His  fatal  ban,  that  daily  seemed  to  drain 
The  fountain  of  her  song,  till  all  was  still ;  — 
E'en  as  the  sandy  grave  of  some  small  rill, 
Erewhile  a  mighty  stream,  that,  towards  the  main 
From  mountain  torrents  sent,  would  fain  its  course  fulfil. 


THE  ANGEL  AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


And  soon  her  fame  a  cold  tradition  proved 
Of  barren  words ;  if  ever  tongue  it  moved 
Of  some  kind  friend,  yet  colder  grew  the  heart 
That  strove  in  vain  its  raptures  to  recall 
As  when  it  warmed  beneath  the  magic  thrall 
Of  living  sound ;  't  was  but  of  some  vague  art 
A  vaguer  chronicle :  and  so  alike  to  all. 

Alas!  to  think  that  from  the  mind  should  pass, 
E'en  as  an  image  from  the  insensate  glass, 
This  all-subduing  mystery  of  Sound, 
That  with  a  breath  can  from  our  stubborn  clay 
Set  free  the  Soul,  and  launch  her  forth  to  stray, 
With  wandering  stars,  through  yon  blue  depths  pro- 
found, 

Where  blessed  spirits  bask  in  empyrean  day ! 

'T  is  even  so  ;  the  shadow  of  a  dream 
Were  sooner  held,  —  doth  more  substantial  seem 
Than  this  celestial  trance  ;  as  if 't  were  given, 
Not  to  the  Memory  in  her  hoarding  pride, 
But  to  the  Soul,  that,  while  to  earth  allied, 
Free  of  its  thraldom,  she  might  know  of  heaven. 
Ah,  how  may  trance  like  this  with  erring  flesh  abide? 

But  did  not  she,  the  gentle  Bird,  repine, 
Her  glory  gone  ?    O,  no  !    "It  was  not  mine," 
Her  wise  and  grateful  heart  again  would  say ; 
"  For,  were  it  else,  't  were  what  I  might  reclaim. 
The  gift  is  gone,  yet  leaves  me  still  the  same ; 
Nay,  richer  still ;  and  who  shall  take  away 
The  memory  of  love,  —  the  love  with  which  it  came?" 


THE   ANGEL   AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


3C9 


Thus  to  herself,  in  murmurs  sweet  and  low, 
Spake  the  meek-natured  Bird,  as  to  and  fro 
She  swung  upon  the  slender,  topmost  spray 
Of  that  lithe  Ash  that  leaned  her  nest  beside ; 
While  oft  the  moon,  who  ne'er  did  sorrow  chide, 
In  soothing  mirth  would  with  her  shadow  play, 
And  chase  it  o'er  the  sand,  or  in  the  forest  hide. 

The  little  brook,  too,  like  a  lowly  friend, 
On  stilly  nights  would  sometimes  humbly  send 
Its  loving  plaint :  and  strange  to  her  it  seemed 
There  came  no  sadness  now  in  that  low  wail ; 
In  sooth 't  was  like  some  gently-moving  tale 
Of  checkered  life,  where  joy  through  sadness  gleamed, 
So  tempered  each  by  each  that  neither  might  prevail. 

And  wherefore  is  it  so,  that  grief  to  grief 
No  pang  should  add,  but  rather  bring  relief? 
Yet  so  it  is.    And,  O,  how  blest  to  feel 
The  pure  and  mystic  bond,  thus  shadowed  forth, 
That  binds  us  to  our  kind,  —  that  from  our  birth 
Makes  self  a  prison-house  in  woe  or  weal, 
And  self-sufficing  hearts  as  alien  to  the  Earth ! 

But  chiefly  is  it  blest  where  virtue  dwells, 
In  kind  and  gentle  hearts  ;  and  then  it  wells, 
As 't  were  a  fountain,  forth  on  all  around, 
So  that  the  woods  and  fields,  and  all  therein 
That  breathe  or  bloom,  do  seem  as  if  akin, 
And  man  to  all  one  common  life  had  bound. 
So  to  our  gentle  Bird  all  nature's  self  had  been. 


310  THE   ANGEL  AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

And  now  did  Nature  in  return  bestow- 
That  healing  sympathy  which  never  woe, 
So  it  be  innocent,  may  seek  in  vain. 
"  O,  never  could  I  in  a  world  so  fair, 
So  full  of  love,  though  losing  all,  despair ; 
For  thou,  sweet,  loving  world,  wouldst  still  remain." 
The  guardian  Angel  heard,  and  blessed  again  his  care. 

Still  was  her  humble  spirit  yet  unproved 
Of  one  sore  test,  which  few  have  stood  unmoved,  — 
That  stinging  pity  which  a  rival's  breath 
Drops  on  the  wounded  heart.    But  soon  it  came. 
And  now  began  the  Thrush  to  talk  of  fame ; 
Then  of  its  loss, —  "  how  bitter,  —  worse  than  death,  — 
To  one  who  held  so  late  a  more  than  royal  name. 

"  Alas,  my  friend,  as  I  recall  the  time 
When  to  our  humble  plain  that  name  sublime 
Drew  from  each  distant  land  the  wondering  throng 
That  hung  upon  thy  breath,  and  see  thee  here, 
Alone,  despised,  in  this  thy  hapless  sphere 
Of  fleeting  sway,  I  fain  could  wish  thy  song 
No  praise  had  ever  won,  —  or  praise  at  least  sincere." 

So  spake  the  Thrush :  but  harmless  fell  the  shaft 
As  shot  in  air.    Yet  when  did  lack  in  craft 
The  spirit  of  revenge  ?  —  if  haply,  too, 
Of  that  rank,  morbid  growth  which  jealous  minds 
Breed  as  by  instinct,  where  fit  weapon  finds 
Each  self-made  wrong,  as  they  together  grew  ? 
The  smooth,  dissembling  Thrush  had  these  of  many 
kinds. 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE   NIGHTINGALE.  311 

And  soon  she  changed,  and  spake  in  blither  mood,  — 
"  How  pleasant  it  would  be  in  this  lone  wood 
To  hear  the  converse  of  some  cheerful  friends  : 
And  many  such  she  knew,  whose  chat  would  cheer 
Her  dearest  friend,  —  might  she  invite  them  here. 
And,  troth,  she  would."    So  straight  aloft  she  bends 
Her  charitable  flight,  and  soon  is  lost  in  air. 

Nor  strange  the  enmity  in  one  so  late 
A  seeming  friend.    'T  was  but  the  common  hate 
Which  cold,  vain  hearts  deem  solace  in  their  need ; 
These  covet  fame  as  if  a  thing  of  will, 
By  suffrage  won  ;  so  count  it  giievous  ill 
If  luckier  rivals  win  the  voted  meed. 
Then  what  but  sweet  revenge  the  craving  heart  can  fill  ? 

Nor  aught  with  such  avails  a  rival's  fall,  — 
Save  that  he  feel  it ;  then,  perchance,  the  gall 
May  cease  to  flow.    But,  let  him  brook  it  well,  — 
His  sad  reverse,  —  as  did  our  gentle  Bird, 
Without  complaining  look  or  fretful  word  ; 
Then  how  afresh  this  bitter  spring  of  hell, 
With  hotter-reeking  hate,  to  fiercer  flow  is  stirred ! 


THE  ANGEL   AMD   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


PART  IV. 

'T  was  now  the  hour,  —  that  boding  hour  of  life, 
When  half-awakened  forms  of  care  or  strife 
Mix  with  the  broken  dream,  —  that  shadowy  hour, 
That  like  a  spectre  stands  'twixt  night  and  day, 
For  good  or  ill,  and  with  his  finger  gray 
Points  to  the  daily  doom  no  mortal  power, 
For  virtue  or  for  vice,  can  either  change  or  stay. 

And  never  came  that  hour  more  winning  mild 
To  mar  the  fancies  of  a  sleeping  child, 
Than  now  it  came  to  our  sweet  Philomel. 
She  looked  abroad  upon  the  hueless  wood, 
Then  on  the  sandy  plain,  where  lately  stood 
That  breathing  multitude  no  tongue  could  tell ; 
All,  all  was  still  and  blank,  yet  all  to  her  was  good. 

For  e'en  the  stillness  seemed  as  if  a  part 
Of  that  pure  peace  that  wrapt  her  gentle  heart. 
Then  how  like  thoughts,  or  rather  like  the  cloud 
Of  formless  feeling  growing  into  thought, 
The  dusky  mass,  as  now  she  sees  it  wrought 
Slow  into  shapes,  that  all  around  her  crowd, 
As  each  their  hue  of  life  from  day's  first  herald  caught,  — 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE   NIGHTINGALE.  313 

The  purple  rack,  that  from  the  eastern  sky 
Tells  to  the  waking  earth  that  day  is  nigh. 
So  mused  she  undepressed  in  this  lone  scene. 
But  now  the  sun  is  up ;  and  soon  a  train, 
Led  by  the  wily  Thrush,  athwart  the  plain 
Is  seen  to  bend.    More  gorgeous  sight,  I  ween, 
Ne'er  made  the  ethereal  bow  when  bent  through  morn- 
ing rain ! 

The  tenants  of  the  wood  what  this  might  mean 
Quick  gathered  round  to  learn ;  for  they  had  seen 
The  stranger  band  afar,  like  some  gray  mist, 
Loosed  from  a  mountain  peak,  wreathing  its  way 
Slow  up  the  west ;  and  there  anon  to  play 
As  with  the  sun ;  now,  dark,  his  light  resist, 
And  now,  in  flickering  flakes,  fling  far  each  shivered  ray. 

These  were  the  creatures  of  that  regal  clime  * 
Where  reigns  the  imperial  Sun ;  whose  soil  sublime 
Teems  through  its  glowing  depths  e'en  with  his  light, 
There  ripening  into  gems ;  the  while  he  dyes, 
With  his  own  orient  hues,  the  earth  and  skies, 
But  most  the  feathered  race,  —  that  so  their  flight 
Might  bring  his  glory  back  in  radiant  sacrifice. 

"  Behold  my  promised  friends;  far  travellers  they, — 
E'en  from  the  new-found  world,  —  who  fain  would  pay 
Their  passing  homage  to  a  Bird  so  famed." 
So  spake  the  insidious  Thrush  :  and  then  around 
Her  snaky  eyes  she  cast,  as  one  who  found 
Full  sure  revenge.    "  Nay,  wherefore  shrink,  ashamed 
Thy  meaner  form  to  show?  for  what  is  form  to  sound?" 


314 


THE   ANGEL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


The  taunting  words  came  dead  upon  the  ear 
Of  her  they  would  have  smote ;  the  cruel  sneer 
Touched  not  a  heart  so  flooded  o'er  with  love, — 
That  pure,  supernal  love  which  now  gushed  forth  :  — 
"  O  blessed  creatures !  whence  your  glorious  birth  ? 
From  what  bright  region  of  the  world  above  ? 
Sure  never  things  so  fair  first  breathed  upon  the  Earth  !  " 

So  deep,  yet  passionless,  that  wondrous  love 
Which  Beauty  wakes !    Pure  Instinct  from  above ! 
That,  'mid  the  selfish  needs,  and  pains,  and  fears, 
That  waste  the  heart,  still  fresh  dost  ever  live ! 
O,  who  can  doubt  the  promise  thou  dost  give 
Of  higher  destiny,  —  when  toiling  years 
And  pain  and  sin  shall  flee,  and  only  love  survive  ? 

Scarce  had  she  spoke,  when  o'er  the  wondering  crowd, 
Grazing  the  dark  tree-tops,  there  stood  a  cloud 
Of  dazzling  white  ;  while  'gainst  the  deep  blue  sky 
Aloft  it  rose,  as 't  were  some  feudal  pile, 
Where  tourneys,  held  for  gentle  ladies'  smile, 
Brought  from  each  polished  land  her  chivalry, 
From  proud  Granada's  realm  to  Britain's  gallant  isle. 

But  how  unlike  to  them  the  radiant  throng 
That  from  these  cloudy  towers  poured  down  their 
song, 

Breathing  of  Heaven  in  each  hallowed  word ! 
"  All  hail !  "  they  sang,  —  "  all  hail,  sweet  Nightingale ! 
Who  enviest  not,  who  hatest  not,  all  hail! 
Who  sufterest  all,  yet  lovest  all,  sweet  Bird ! 
Thy  glory  here  begun  shall  never,  never  fail  ! " 


THE   ANGEL   AND   THE   NIGHTINGALE.  315 

But,  lo !  a  sudden  darkness,  deep  as  night, 
Fell  on  the  thick,  hot  air.    With  strange  affright 
The  winged  crowd  against  each  other  dashed : 
All  but  our  gentle  Bird ;  she  fearless  stood, 
And  saw  the  towery  cloud,  now  changed  to  blood, 
Boil  as  in  wrath ;  and  now  with  fire  it  flashed, 
And  forth  the  thunder  rolled,  and  shook  the  appalled  wood. 

Then  straight  again  the  quiet  sylvan  scene 
Lay  bright  and  basking  in  the  morning  sheen  ;  — 
So  like  a  dream  had  this  wild  vision  fled! 
Nor  left  it  aught  its  fearful  truth  to  note, 
Save  on  the  sandy  plain  one  small,  dark  spot, 
Where  lay  the  envious  Thrush, — black,  stiff,  and  dead. 
Alas,  too  well  deserved  her  miserable  lot ! 

A  cold,  brief  look  was  all  the  useless  dead 
Had  from  her  parting  friends,  who  forthwith  sped 
Each  to  his  tropic  home.    But  what  befell 
Our  gentle  Bird  ?    Some  say  her  glorious  strain 
Within  that  dreadful  cloud  was  heard  again, 
Deepening  the  thunder ;  then  afar  to  swell 
'Mid  soft,  symphonious  sounds,  like  murmurs  from  the 
main. 

Howe'er  it  was,  one  faith  had  all  possessed, — 
Her  spirit  then  was  numbered  with  the  blest. 
And  still  there  are  who  hold  a  faith  as  strong, 
Though  years  have  passed,  far,  far  upon  the  drift 
Of  ebbless  time,  that  some  have  now  the  gift 
On  a  still,  starlight  night  to  hear  her  song, — 
As 't  were  their  blameless  hearts  still  nearer  heaven  to  lift. 


316 


GLORIA  MUNDI. 


I  looked  upon  the  fields  so  beautifully  green, 
I  looked  upon  the  hills  and  vale  between, 
By  shade  and  sunshine  flecked  with  day  and  night 
And  then  I  heard  the  mountain  breezes  tread 
Their  wooded  sides,  like  leafy  steps  that  led 
Down  to  the  broad  and  blue  bright  river's  bed, 
Dwindling  in  distance  to  a  line  of  light. 
I  gazed,  and  gazed, — till  all  my  senses  caught 
The  earthy  charm.    Then  waked  the  fevered  thous 
"  Drink,  O  my  spirit,  of  thy  cup  of  bliss, 
That  ne'er  can  fail  thee  in  a  world  like  this ! " 

The  charm  is  gone !    Ah,  wherefore  was  it  sent, 

To  leave  this  vague  and  haunting  discontent  ? 

I  saw  it  rise,  like  moving  meadow  mists, 
Before  my  path,  as 't  were  a  thing  of  sight ; 
E'en  as  that  vapory  sea,  drinking  the  light 
Fresh  from  the  sun,  and  showering  rubies  bright 

Where'er  it  breaks,  and  purple  amethysts. 


GLORIA  MUND1. 


317 


Ay,  so  it  seemed.    And  then  I  saw  it  paled, 

Till,  like  that  mimic  sea,  't  was  all  exhaled. 

Then  from  her  plumbless  depth, — to  mock  the  whole, — 

Dark  in  her  mystery,  came  forth  the  Soul. 

And  noiv,  —  O,  what  to  me  this  marvellous  Earth 

But  one  vast  show  of  misery  and  mirth, 

In  fearful  alternation  wheeled  through  space ; 

Where  life  is  death ;  where  the  dead  dust  doth  grow, 
And  push  to  air,  and  drink  the  dew,  and  blow 
In  fragrant  flowers,  that  in  their  turn  re-sow 

Their  parent  soil  for  some  new  living  race ; 

Where  crumbled  sepulchres  uprise  in  thrones, 

And  gorgeous  palaces  from  dead  men's  bones ; 

Where,  like  the  worm,  the  proudest  lips  are  fed, 

The  delicate,  the  dainty,  on  the  dead. 

Ah,  glorious  vanity !    Ah,  worse  than  vain 
To  him  who  counts  its  whole  possession  gain, 
Or  fondly  seeks  on  Earth  one  point  of  rest,  — 
E'en  though  it  be  the  imperial  house  of  Fame, 
That  still  'mid  falling  empires  stands  the  same : 
Alas!  that  house  of  breath  but  stays  his  name, — 
His  restless  spirit  passes  like  a  guest. 
No,  —  there 's  a  spark  that  in  the  dullest  lives ; 
That  once  to  all  its  light  spiritual  gives, 
Revealing  to  the  soul  a  void  so  vast 
Not  all  in  time  may  fill,  —  not  all  the  past ! 

And  yet  there  are,  who,  ever  doubting,  deem 
This  inward  light  the  fiction  of  a  dream, 
Contemptuous  turning  to  the  reasoning  day : 
27* 


318 


GLORIA  MUNDI. 


While  some  with  outward  things  e'en  hope  to  close 
The  too-obtruding  gulf,  and  buy  repose 
From  ear  and  eye ;  or  with  fantastic  shows 

In  pride  of  intellect  around  it  play. 

Vain  toil  of  unbelief!    For  who  may  flee 

This  fearful  warrant  of  his  destiny, 

That  tracks  the  royal  skeptic  to  his  throne, 

Marking  his  fealty  to  a  world  unknown  ? 

O,  rather  let  me,  in  the  void  I  feel, 
With  no  misgiving  seek  my  lasting  weal : 
Things  blank  and  imageless  in  human  speech 
Have  oft  a  truth  imperative  in  might; 
And  so  that  stream,  unnamed,  unknown  of  sight, 
Unheard  of  ear,  that  thence  doth  day  and  night 
Flow  on  the  Soul ;  and  she  doth  feel  it  reach 
Her  deepest  seat  of  life,  and  knows  her  home 
Is  whence  that  dim,  mysterious  stream  doth  come ; 
Where  all  without  is  peace,  all  peace  within,  — 
A  home  closed  only  to  the  rebel,  Sin. 

Then  be  not  in  me  quenched  that  inward  ray, 
Shed  on  my  spirit  when  this  moving  clay 
First  took  the  wondrous  gift,  its  life.    O,  never 
May  things  of  sense  beguile  me  to  the  brink 
Of  that  dark  fount  of  Pride,  of  which  to  drink 
Is  but  to  swallow  madness,  —  when  to  think 
Will  only  be  to  doubt,  till  darkness  ever 
Wall  up  the  soul.    But  let  Humility, 
Born  of  the  obedient  will,  my  guide  still  be 
Through  this  fair  world,  —  though  changing,  yet  how 
fair !  — 

Till  all  shall  be  to  me  as  things  that  were. 


319 


THE  ATONEMENT. 


Hopeless,  alas,  of  sinful  man  the  lot, 
(And  who  can  say  of  sin,  he  knows  it  not?) 
If  that  the  thoughts  that  herald  forth  the  Will 
In  all  their  myriad  hues  may  never  die ! 
'T  is  even  so,  —  with  all  their  good  and  ill ; 
For  what  but  they  the  Ever-conscious  I? 

Then  what  compunctious,  agonizing  grief? 
Alas !  it  gives  not  to  the  Soul  relief, 
That  in  herself  no  past  can  know ;  that  never 
From  the  u  eternal  Now  "  one  thought  can  sever. 
Ah,  no !  —  no  partial  suicide  may  drink 
Her  least  of  life  whose  tenure  is  to  think. 
What  though,  as  dead,  through  threescore  years  and  ten 
Some  evil  thought  should  sleep  ?  there  ?s  no  amen. 
Fresh  as  new-born  that  unremembered  thought 
Again  must  wake,  —  nay,  even  on  the  brink 
Of  some  far-distant  grave,  and  there  its  link 
Join  to  the  living  chain  of  self,  self-wrought, 


320 


THE  ATONEMENT. 


Which  binds  the  Soul,  —  her  fetter  and  her  life  : 
Her  life  the  consciousness  of  fruitless  strife. 

Ay,  such,  O  Man,  thy  wretched  lot  had  been 
Had  He  forbade  not,  —  He  who  knew  no  sin ; 
Who  to  his  own,  the  creatures  he  had  made, 
Veiling  his  empyrean  glory,  came, 
E'en  in  their  form ;  who,  not  alone  in  name, 
But  palpable  in  flesh,  as  man,  obeyed 
The  human  law  ;  a  veritable  man  ; 
A  second  Adam,  who  again  began 
The  human  will,  that,  to  our  nature  joined, 
The  obedience  of  that  will  should  fulness  find 
In  His,  the  Infinite,  uncraving  Mind. 
O  blessed  truth !  in  my  soul's  need  I  feel 
In  thee  alone  my  ever-during  weal. 
Yet  who  may  hope  to  reach,  or,  reached,  abide, 
Unquenched  of  life,  this  awful  mystery ;  — 
The  sweat  of  blood,  the  nameless  agony, 
That  wrought  the  final  doom  of  Sin  and  Death, 
When  tumbled  from  his  throne  the  Prince  of  Earth  ;  — 
That  gave  again  to  Man  a  sinless  birth, 
That  breathed  into  his  clay  a  sinless  breath  ? 

No,  not  to  me,  of  mortal  mould,  is  given 
To  scan  the  mystery  which  no  eye  in  heaven, 
Attempered  to  all  deepest  things,  may  read. 
Yet  who  shall  make  me  doubt  the  truth  I  need  ? 
Then  down,  my  Soul !  from  the  four  farthest  towers 
Of  the  four  warring  winds,  call  in  thy  powers, 
Vagrant  o'er  earth,  with  all  their  reasoning  pride, 
And  here  beneath  the  Cross  their  madness  hide ; 


THE  ATONEMENT. 


32] 


Down  to  its  kindred  dust  here  cast  thy  store 
Of  learned  ignorance,  to  rise  no  more : 
For  what  may  all  avail  thee,  if  to  thee, 
When  all  of  sense  like  passing  air  shall  flee,  — 
If  to  thy  dull,  sealed  ear,  come  not  the  cry, 
"  Where  now,  O  Death,  thy  sting,  O  Grave,  thy  vic- 
tory ?  " 


322 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  RECOLLECTION  OF  A  LITTLE  BIRD,  CARYED 
BY  THE  WRITER,  WHEN  SIX  YEARS  OLD,  OUT  OF  A  GREEN  STALK  OF 
THE  INDIAN  CORN,  AS  A  PARTING  GIFT  TO  HIS  SISTER. 


?T  is  sad  to  think,  of  all  the  crowded  Past, 
How  small  a  remnant  in  the  memory  lives ! 
A  shadowy  mass  of  shapes  at  random  cast 
Wide  on  a  broken  sea  the  image  gives 

Of  most  that  we  recall. 

Yet,  haply,  not  to  all 
That  once  have  lived  doth  wayward  Memory  close 
Her  book  of  life,  —  or,  rather,  book  of  love  ; 
For  there,  as  quickened  by  some  breath  above, 
The  pure  affections  must  for  aye  repose. 

And  how  the  rudest  toys  by  childhood  wrought,  — 
The  symbols  of  its  love,  —  there  live  and  grow 
To  classic  forms,  on  which  no  after  thought, 
No  learned  toil,  can  with  its  skill  bestow 

A  truer  touch  of  Art, 

To  fix  them  in  the  heart  I 


TO   MY  SISTER. 


323 


Then  not  in  vain  the  gift  of  little  worth, 
Thus  shadowing  to  the  soul  the  blessed  truth, 
That  all  things  pure  must  needs  immortal  youth 
Hold  as  their  heritage,  though  born  of  Earth. 

And  so,  my  Sister,  doth  that  childish  toy, 
Which  love  for  thee  had  shaped,  still  with  me  live  ; 
The  life  imparted  by  the  loving  Boy 
Is  truer  life  than  now  his  Art  can  give : 

I  see  its  emerald  wing, 

Nay,  almost  hear  it  sing ! 
And  oft  that  little  vegetable  bird 
Shall  flit  between  us  when  we  part  again ; 
Its  bright,  perennial  form  shall  skim  the  main, 
A  silent  sign,  —  nor  need  an  uttered  word. 


324 


SONNET. 

THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


The  Earth  has  had  her  visitation.    Like  to  this 
She  hath  not  known,  save  when  the  mounting  waters 
Made  of  her  orb  one  universal  ocean. 
For  now  the  Tree  that  grew  in  Paradise, 
The  deadly  Tree  that  first  gave  Evil  motion, 
And  sent  its  poison  through  Earth's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, 

Had  struck  again  its  root  in  every  land ; 
And  now  its  fruit  was  ripe,  —  about  to  fall,  — 
And  now  a  mighty  Kingdom  raised  the  hand, 
To  pluck  and  eat.    Then  from  his  throne  stepped 
forth 

The  King  of  Hell,  and  stood  upon  the  Earth : 
But  not,  as  once,  upon  the  Earth  to  crawl. 
A  Nation's  congregated  form  he  took, 
Till,  drunk  with  sin  and  blood,  Earth  to  her  centre  shook. 


325 


SONNET. 


THOUGHT. 


What  master-voice  shall  from  the  dim  profound 
Of  Thought  evoke  its  fearful,  mighty  Powers  ?  — 
Those  dread  enchanters,  whose  terrific  call 
May  never  be  gainsaid ;  whose  wondrous  thrall 
Alone  the  Infinite,  the  Uncreate,  may  bound ; 
In  whose  dark  presence  e'en  the  Reason  cowers, 
Lost  in  their  mystery,  e'en  while  her  slaves, 
Doing  her  proud  behests.    Ay,  who  to  sense 
Shall  bring  them  forth  ?  —  those  subtile  Powers  that 
wear 

No  shape  their  own,  yet  to  the  mind  dispense 
All  shapes  that  be.    Or  who  in  deepest  graves 
Seal  down  the  crime  which  they  shall  not  uptear  ?  — 
Those  fierce  avengers,  whom  the  murdered  dead 
Shall  hear,  and  follow  to  the  murderer's  bed. 


28 


326 


SONNET. 


A  SMILE. 


A  smile  !  —  Alas,  how  oft  the  lips  that  bear 
This  floweret  of  the  soul  but  give  to  air, 
Like  flowering  graves,  the  growth  of  buried  care ! 
Then  drear  indeed  that  miserable  heart 
Where  this  last  human  boon  is  aye  denied ! 
If  such  there  be,  it  claims  in  man  no  part, 
Whose  deepest  grief  has  yet  a  mirthful  bride. 
For  whose  so  many  as  the  sad  man's  face  ? 
His  joy,  though  brief,  is  yet  reprieve  from  woe; 
The  waters  of  his  life  in  darkness  flow ; 
Yet,  when  the  accidents  of  time  displace 
The  cares  that  vault  their  channel,  and  let  in 
A  gleam  of  day,  with  what  a  joyous  din 
The  stream  jets  out  to  catch  the  sunny  grace ! 


SONNET. 


ART. 


O  Art,  high  gift  of  Heaven  !  how  oft  defamed 
When  seeming  praised !    To  most  a  craft  that  fits, 
By  dead,  prescriptive  Rule,  the  scattered  bits 
Of  gathered  knowledge ;  even  so  misnamed 
By  some  who  would  invoke  thee ;  but  not  so 
By  him,  —  the  noble  Tuscan,*  —  who  gave  birth 
To  forms  unseen  of  man,  unknown  to  Earth, 
Now  living  habitants ;  he  felt  the  glow 
Of  thy  revealing  touch,  that  brought  to  view 
The  invisible  Idea ;  and  he  knew, 
E'en  by  his  inward  sense,  its  form  was  true : 
'T  was  life  to  life  responding,  —  highest  truth! 
So,  through  Elisha's  faith,  the  Hebrew  Youth 
Beheld  the  thin  blue  air  to  fiery  chariots  grow. 


*  Michael  Angelo, 


328 


THE  CALYCANTHUS.* 


INSCRIBED  TO  MY  MOTHER. 


A  little  Conjurer  before  me  stood. 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  purple  hood ; 
And  yet  no  mystic  word  or  sign 
Gave  tokens  of  his  wizard  power. 
He  seemed  a  modest,  pretty  Flower,  — 
Such  as  might  grace  a  Poet's  line, 

Or  Painter  love  in  golden  locks  to  wreathe ; 

Nor  seemed  he  other  till  my  throbbing  heart 

Felt  in  his  odorous  breath  his  mighty  art : 
Such  breath  can  only  magic  breathe ! 

Scarce  was  my  spirit  of  the  truth  aware 

"When  straight  it  cleaved  a  thousand  miles  of  air. 

I  trod,  methought,  my  native  land ; 

Where  many  a  long-forgotten  pleasure, 


*  Written  on  seeing  this  favorite  flower  of  my  childhood  after  an  inter- 
val of  many  years. 


THE   CALY  CAN  THUS. 


329 


Like  many  a  spendthrift's  early  treasure, 
Lay  buried  'neath  Time's  dropping  sand; 
That  ever-dropping  sand  that  never  drifts  ; 
Though  whirlwinds  sweep  it,  still  unmoved  that  piles 
Its  grain  on  grain ;  still  climbing  up  to  miles,  — 
To  where  not  Himalaya  lifts. 

But  Time,  with  all  his  load,  was  then  as  naught ; 

The  wizard  Flower  had  in  my  vision  wrought 
The  gift  to  see  through  mountain  years. 
O,  then  how  swift  upon  me  thronging 
Came  every  childish  hope  and  longing, 
And  causeless  smiles,  and  sunny  tears 

That  fell  as  if  in  mockery  of  grief, 

Making  their  rosy  journeys  from  the  eye 

In  laughing  dimples  for  a  while  to  lie, 
Then  yield  a  life  as  bright  as  brief ! 

Again  the  tiny  Artist  toiled  apart 

Beneath  that  fervid  sun,  —  nor  dreamt  of  Art. 

The  gay  Pomegranate  dropped  anew,  — 

As  if  to  tempt  his  mimic  powers,  — 

Her  gold  and  crimson  solid  flowers, 

That  soon  to  fairy  vases  grew ; 
The  giant  Pine  looked  down  upon  the  boat 
Carved  from  his  bark,  and  seemed  in  murmurs  hoarse, 
But  gentle  as  the  Child,  to  bless  its  course, 

When  that  the  little  craft  should  float. 

And  then  how  long-,  how  full  of  time,  did  seem 
A  single  day  in  this  my  dreamed-o'er  dream ! 

28* 


330 


THE  CALYCANTHUS. 


For  all  I  saw  the  teeming  mind 

Had  gifted  with  some  wondrous  story ; 

The  aged  Oak,  whose  moss-beard  hoary 

Waved  to  the  fitful  evening  wind, 
Was  but  the  spirit  of  some  Ogre,  bound 
In  other  shape,  and  doomed,  for  cruel  thirst 
Of  infant's  blood,  to  quit  his  form  accursed,  — 

Then  rooted  to  enchanted  ground. 

Deep  mystery!  that  the  Soul,  as  not  content 
To  see,  to  hear,  should  thus  her  own  moods  vent,  — 
Living  as 't  were  in  all  that  lives ! 
E'en  as  the  ever-changing  Ocean, 
Whether  in  calmed  rest  or  motion, 
Its  own  transforming  image  gives ; 
Sending  its  terrors  into  hearts  of  stone 
Till  human  wailing  swells  the  dooming  roar ; 
Or,  smoothly  sleeping  near  some  fearful  shore, 
Dyes  rocks  in  beauty  not  their  own. 

Ah,  never  will  return  those  loving  days, 
So  loath  to  part,  —  those  fond,  reluctant  rays 
That  seemed  to  haunt  the  summer's  eve. 
And,  O,  what  charm  of  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 
Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave, 
When  by  my  bed  I  saw  my  Mother  kneel, 
And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss  ? 
Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this,  — 
E'en  now  that  hallowed  kiss  I  feel. 


331 


ROSALIE. 


"  O,  pour  upon  my  soul  again 

That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 
That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 
As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 

And  dropped  them  from  the  skies ! 

"  No,  —  never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  woe, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow, 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs, 
Unknown  before ;  that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light,  —  if  light  it  be,  — 

That  veils  the  world  I  see. 

"  For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 

The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
O,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this,  — 

So  like  angelic  bliss." 


332 


ROSALIE. 


So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play,  — 

So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie, 

As  on  her  maiden  reverie 

First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
Tn  music  to  her  soul. 


333 


THE  SPANISH  MAID. 


Five  weary  months  sweet  Inez  numbered 
From  that  unfading,  bitter  day 
When  last  she  heard  the  trumpet  bray 
That  called  her  Isidore  away,  — 

That  never  to  her  heart  has  slumbered. 

She  hears  it  now,  and  sees,  far  bending 
Along  the  mountain's  misty  side, 
His  plumed  troop,  that,  waving  wide, 
Seems  like  a  rippling,  feathery  tide, 

Now  bright,  now  with  the  dim  shore  blending. 

She  hears  the  cannon's  deadly  rattle,  — 
And  fancy  hurries  on  to  strife, 
And  hears  the  drum  and  screaming  fife 
Mix  with  the  last  sad  cry  of  life. 

O,  should  he,  —  should  he  fall  in  battle  ! 


THE   SPANISH  MAID. 


Yet  still  his  name  would  live  in  story, 
And  every  gallant  bard  in  Spain 
"Would  fight  his  battles  o'er  again. 
And  would  she  not  for  such  a  strain 

Resign  him  to  his  country's  glory  ? 

Thus  Inez  thought,  and  plucked  the  flower 
That  grew  upon  the  very  bank 
Where  first  her  ear  bewildered  drank 
The  plighted  vow,  —  where  last  she  sank 

In  that  too  bitter  parting  hour. 

But  now  the  sun  is  westward  sinking ; 
And  soon,  amid  the  purple  haze 
That  showers  from  his  slanting  rays, 
A  thousand  Loves  there  meet  her  gaze, 

To  change  her  high,  heroic  thinking. 

Then  hope,  with  all  its  crowding  fancies, 
Before  her  flits  and  fills  the  air ; 
And,  decked  in  Victory's  glorious  gear, 
In  vision  Isidore  is  there. 

Then  how  her  heart  'mid  sadness  dances ! 

Yet  little  thought  she,  thus  forestalling 
The  coming  joy,  that  in  that  hour 
The  Future,  like  the  colored  shower 
That  seems  to  arch  the  ocean  o'er, 

Was  in  the  living  Present  falling. 


THE   SPANISH  MAID. 


335 


The  foe  is  slain.    His  sable  charger, 

All  flecked  with  foam,  comes  bounding  on. 
The  wild  Morena  rings  anon ; 
And  on  its  brow  the  gallant  Don 

And  gallant  steed  grow  larger,  larger ; 

And  now  he  nears  the  mountain-hollow ; 
The  flowery  bank  and  little  lake 
Now  on  his  startled  vision  break, — 
And  Inez  there.  —  He 's  not  awake ! 
Yet  how  he  '11  love  this  dream  to-morrow ! 

But  no,  —  he  surely  is  not  dreaming. 
Another  minute  makes  it  clear. 
A  scream,  a  rush,  a  burning  tear 
From  Inez'  cheek,  dispel  the  fear 

That  bliss  like  his  is  only  seeming. 


336 


THE  TUSCAN  GIRL. 


How  pleasant  and  how  sad  the  turning  tide 
Of  human  life,  when  side  by  side 
The  child  and  youth  begin  to  glide 
Along  the  vale  of  years, 
The  pure  twin-being  for  a  little  space, 
With  lightsome  heart,  and  yet  a  graver  face, 
Too  young  for  woe,  though  not  for  tears. 

This  turning  tide  is  Ursulina's  now , 
The  time  is  marked  upon  her  brow, 
Now  every  thought  and  feeling  throw 
Their  shadows  on  her  face  ; 
For  so  are  every  thought  and  feeling  joined, 
'T  were  hard  to  answer  whether  heart  or  mind 
Of  either  were  the  native  place. 

The  things  that  once  she  loved  are  still  the  same, 
Yet  now  there  needs  another  name 
To  give  the  feeling  which  they  claim, 
While  she  the  feeling  gives ; 
She  cannot  call  it  gladness  or  delight ; 
And  yet  there  seems  a  richer,  lovelier  light 
On  e'en  the  humblest  thing  that  lives. 


THE   TUSCAN   GIRL.  3-37 

She  sees  the  mottled  moth  come  twinkling  by. 
And  sees  it  sip  the  floweret  nigh  ; 
Yet  not  as  once,  with  eager  cry, 
She  grasps  the  pretty  thing ; 
Her  thoughts  now  mingle  with  its  tranquil  mood,  — 
So  poised  in  air,  as  if  on  air  it  stood, 
To  show  its  gold  and  purple  wing. 

She  hears  the  bird  without  a  wish  to  snare, 
But  rather  on  the  azure  air 
To  mount,  and  with  it  wander  there 
To  some  untrodden  land  ; 
As  if  it  told  her,  in  its  happy  song, 
Of  pleasure  strange  that  never  can  belong 
To  aught  of  sight  or  touch  of  hand. 

Now  the  young  soul  her  mighty  power  shall  prove, 
And  outward  things  around  her  move 
Pure  ministers  of  purer  love, 
And  make  the  heart  her  home, 
Or  to  the  meaner  senses  sink  a  slave, 
To  do  their  bidding,  though  they  madly  crave 
Through  hateful  scenes  of  vice  to  roam? 

But,  Ursulina,  thine  the  better  choice; 
Thine  eyes  so  speak,  as  with  a  voice ; 
Thy  heart  may  still  in  Earth  rejoice 
And  all  its  beauty  love, 
But  no,  not  all  this  fair,  enchanting  Earth, 
With  all  its  spells,  can  give  the  rapture  birth 
That  waits  thy  conscious  soul  above, 
29 


338 


THE  YOUNG  TROUBADOUR. 


The  House  of  Este's  bannered  pile 
Lay  glittering  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  many  a  warlike  trophy,  won 
From  swarthy  Moor  and  Arab  dun, 

Seemed  grimly  through  the  air  to  smile. 

And  all  her  knights  from  Palestine, 
As  called  in  jubilant  array 
From  out  their  tombs,  stood,  fiercely  gay, 
In  mail  and  casque,  to  grace  the  day 

That  weds  the  heir  of  Este's  line. 

For  all  along  the  banquet-hall 
Was  pedestalled,  as  if  in  life, 
The  mail  that  each  had  worn  in  strife, 
To  greet  Count  Julian's  lovely  wife, 

Fair  Isabel  of  Sinigal. 


THE    YOUNG   TROUBADOUR.  339 

And  many  a  noble,  far  and  near, 
And  pilgrims  from  the  Holy  Land, 
And  all  renowned  for  voice  or  hand 
In  minstrelsy,  in  many  a  land, 

From  every  courtly  clime  were  there, 

But  one  there  was,  a  wandering  Boy, 
A  stranger  to  his  native  soil, 
Whom  penury  had  doomed  to  moil, 
But  grateful,  in  the  Poet's  toil, 

Who  could  not  pine  for  other  joy. 

With  heart  and  head  that  seemed  as  one, 
His  loved  guitar  his  only  store, 
From  court  to  court  he  made  his  tour, 
A  gentle,  happy  Troubadour, 

Whose  quiet  spirit  envied  none. 

And  with  the  Bride  the  Troubadour, 
Now  honored  as  her  favored  page, 
Had  come  his  tiny  skill  to  wage 
With  other  bards  of  riper  age 

In  bridal  song  and  festal  lore. 

Yet  thought  not  he  of  rival  art ; 
He  sang  not  for  a  sounding  name ; 
He  loved  the  Muse  because  she  came 
Unasked,  and  gave  him  more  than  fame,  — 

The  pure,  sweet  music  of  the  heart. 


340 


THE   YOUNG  TROUBADOUR. 


There  stood  within  a  lonely  dell 
A  broken  fountain,  called  of  yore 
The  Lover's  Fount,  where,  bending  o'er, 
A  marble  Cupid  once  did  pour 

The  sweetest  drops  that  ever  fell. 

And  all  who  drank  of  that  pure  stream, 
'T  was  said,  would  in  its  mirror  see 
The  gallant  He,  or  lovely  She, 
That,  in  their  natal  stars'  decree, 

Would  bless  them  through  life's  troubled  dream. 

But  long  the  stream  had  ceased  to  flow ; 
Yet  still  the  marble  urchin  stops, 
As  if  to  watch  the  feigned  drops, 
And  mock  the  baffled  lover's  hopes 

Who  seeks  in  faith  a  bride  below. 

Beside  this  fountain's  grassy  brink, 
The  little  Bard  now  sought  to  train 
His  wandering  thoughts,  and  build  a  strain 
For  knightly  ears ;  but  all  in  vain  ; 

On  knightly  themes  he  could  not  think. 

He  sang  of  Este's  martial  lord ; 

He  numbered  o'er  each  gallant  deed. 
And  made  afresh  the  caitiffs  bleed, 
That  fell  before  his  barbed  steed, 

Or  oped  their  cleft  helms  to  his  sword. 


THE   YOUNG  TROUBADOUR. 


341 


And  yet  his  soul  could  not,  as  once, 

The  madness  catch,  and  outward  glow, 
With  flashing  eye  and  knotted  brow ; 
A  softer  mood  would  o'er  him  grow, 

Do  all  he  could,  —  a  little  dunce ! 

And  then  he  tried  the  tournament, 
And  sang  how  Julian's  mighty  lance 
O'erthrew  the  chivalry  of  France ; 
Then  how  he  fell  beneath  a  glance 

From  one  bright  eye,  — which  through  him  went. 

Ah,  now  he  touched  the  magic  chord 

That  waked  his  soul  through  all  her  springs ; 
His  true  guitar  itself  now  sings, 
As  if  alive  its  happy  strings, 

Mingling  its  life  with  every  word. 

Ah,  now  he  feels  ! —  for  that  bright  eye 
Himself  had  felt  in  kindness  beam, 
And  now,  his  Lady  fair  the  theme, 
His  spirit  trod,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  purple  meadows  of  the  sky. 

For  there  alone  her  virtues  took 

A  bodied  form,  substantial,  true, 

That  to  the  inward  senses  grew, 

In  angel  shapes,  distinct  to  view, 
On  which 't  were  bliss  enough  to  look. 
29* 


342 


THE   YOUNG  TROUBADOUR. 


The  tranced  Boy,  now  starting,  stood, 
And  gently  breathed  his  last  address : 
"  O  happy  husband  to  possess 
A  wife  so  formed  to  love,  to  bless, 

A  wife  so  beautiful,  so  good ! " 


343 


THE  BETROTHED. 


"  O,  bless  thee,  happy,  happy,  revelling  brook ! 
"Whose  merry  voice  within  this  lonely  nook, 
In  ceaseless  gurgle,  all  day  long 
Singeth  the  dancing  leaves  among ;  — 
I  love,  —  O,  how  I  love  thy  song !  " 
So  from  its  joyous  fount  the  almost  bride, 
Sweet  Esther,  poured  her  heart  that  brook  beside. 
The  mystic  word  had  passed  its  coral  gate, 
The  little  mystic  Yes  that  sealed  her  fate  : 
'T  is  now  upon  the  outward  air; 
Yet  not,  like  other  sounds,  to  share 
The  common  death ;  for,  haply,  there 
The  formless  element  that  near  it  flew 
Caught  the  warm  breath,  and  into  being  grew. 

Her  page-like  spirit  now,  that  little  word 

Ever  before  her,  like  some  fairy  bird, 
Flits  in  her  path  ;  to  all  around, 
To  every  form,  to  every  sound, 
Imparting  love ;  till  e'en  the  ground, 


344 


THE  BETROTHED. 


The  dull,  dark  ground  beneath,  the  trees  above, 
And  chiming  breezes,  all,  breathe  only  love. 
And  with  that  little  word  there  ever  comes 
A  tune  like  that  the  homeward  wild-bee  hums, 
Shaping  in  sound  her  winter's  store. 
The  future  now  seems  brimming  o'er 
With  nameless  good ;  nor  asks  she  more 
Of  jealous  Time,  than  dimly  thus  to  look 
Into  his  bright,  unlettered,  future  book. 

One  only  form  of  all  the  crowded  past 

She  could  not,  if  she  would,  from  memory  cast,  — 

Nay,  from  her  sight ;  for  wheresoe'er 

She  turns  or  looks,  afar  or  near, 

That  haunting  form  is  ever  there. 
Her  own  sweet  Poet,  too,  no  other  gives,  — 
E'en  on  his  unread  page  that  image  lives ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  she  loves  that  page  the  more,  — 
No,  never  had  it  touched  her  so  before : 

She  loves  the  woods,  the  earth,  the  sky ; 

For  all  that  in  their  empires  lie 

But  teem  of  him,  —  that  dearer  Z 
On  which  she  may  not  blush  for  aye  to  dwell,  — 
That  other  self  she  cannot  love  too  well. 


340 


SONNET 


ON  THE  STATUE  OF  AN  ANGEL,  BY  BIENAIME,  IN  THE  POSSESSION  OP 
J.  S.  COPLEY  GREENE,  ESQ. 


Ah,  who  can  look  on  that  celestial  face, 

And  kindred  for  it  claim  with  aught  on  earth  ? 

If  ever  here  more  lovely  form  had  birth,  — 

No,  never  that  supernal  purity,  —  that  grace 

So  eloquent  of  unimpassioned  love  ! 

That,  by  a  simple  movement,  thus  imparts 

Its  own  harmonious  peace,  the  while  our  hearts 

Rise,  as  by  instinct,  to  the  world  above. 

And  yet  we  look  on  cold,  unconscious  stone. 

But  what  is  that  which  thus  our  spirits  own 

As  Truth  and  Life?    'T  is  not  material  Art, — 

But  e'en  the  Sculptor's  soul  to  sense  unsealed. 

O,  never  may  he  doubt,  —  its  witness  so  revealed,  — 

There  lives  within  him  an  immortal  part! 


346 


SONNET 


ON  THE  LATE  S.  T.  COLERIDGE, 


And  thou  art  gone,  most  loved,  most  honored  friend ! 

No,  never  more  thy  gentle  voice  shall  blend 

With  air  of  Earth  its  pure  ideal  tones, 

Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones, 

The  heart  and  intellect.    And  I  no  more 

Shall  with  thee  gaze  on  that  unfathomed  deep, 

The  Human  Soul,  —  as  when,  pushed  off  the  shore, 

Thy  mystic  bark  would  through  the  darkness  sweep, 

Itself  the  while  so  bright !    For  oft  we  seemed 

As  on  some  starless  sea,  —  all  dark  above, 

All  dark  below,  —  yet,  onward  as  we  drove, 

To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  streamed. 

But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 

Of  all  he  loved  :  thy  living  Truths  are  left. 


347 


SONNET. 

IMMORTALITY. 


To  think  for  aye ;  to  breathe  immortal  breath ; 
And  know  nor  hope,  nor  fear,  of  ending  death ; 
To  see  the  myriad  worlds  that  round  us  roll 
Wax  old  and  perish,  while  the  steadfast  soul 
Stands  fresh  and  moveless  in  her  sphere  of  thought; 
O  God,  omnipotent!  who  in  me  wrought 
This  conscious  world,  whose  ever-growing  orb, 
When  the  dead  Past  shall  all  in  time  absorb, 
Will  be  but  as  begun,  —  O,  of  thine  own, 
Give  of  the  holy  light  that  veils  thy  throne, 
That  darkness  be  not  mine,  to  take  my  place, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  light,  a  blot  in  space ! 
So  may  this  wondrous  Life,  from  sin  made  free, 
Reflect  thy  love  for  aye,  and  to  thy  glory  be. 


348 


THE  MARIGOLD. 


INSCRIBED  TO  MISS  M   E   D  . 


Erewhile  it  chanced  two  wandering  Rays, — 
So  then  deposed  a  moon-struck  Painter, — 
Met  on  a  cloud  his  upward  gaze ; 

One  dazzling  bright,  the  other  fainter. 
Then  came  a  strain  so  small  and  wild, 
9T  was  like  the  sobs  of  fairy  child 
Lost  in  a  rose ;  and  then  it  streamed 
Like  distant  bells;  then,  —  else  he  dreamed, — 
It  language  took ;  and  thus  it  seemed  : 

u  Ho !  brilliant  Brother !  tell  me  how  "  

"  Nay,  radiant  Sister,  tell  me  rather 

How  one  so  well  beloved  as  thou 

Could  ever  leave  our  royal  Father  ?  " 

"  He  left  me  in  the  watery  bow, 

And  sank  so  quick  the  sea  below, 

I  lost  my  way,  and  bent  my  flight 

To  this  high  cloud,  lest  haply  Night 

Should  quench  on  earth  my  feeble  light " 


THE  MARIGOLD. 


"  Dear,  modest  Topaz,  say  not  so ; 

Beside  yon  star  thou  seem'st  another,  — 
And  brighter  of  the  two,  I  trow ! " 

"  But  say,  kind,  dazzling  Ruby  Brother, 
Why  meet  we  in  a  place  so  drear  ?  " 
"  O,  how  miscalled  while  thou  art  here, 
Whose  glory  tracks  thy  very  name ! " 
"  Nay,  truant  flatterer,  cease,  for  shame ! " 
"  Then,  gentle  Sister,  know,  I  came 
To  edge  this  curtain-cloud  with  flame ; 

"  But  scarce  had  I  my  task  begun, 

When  here  I  found  a  group  of  Azure 
Changing  my  fringe  to  purple  dun ;  — 

They  said  it  was  the  Sun's  good  pleasure 
I  knew 't  was  false,  —  the  dastard  Rays  !  — 
And  gave  them  battle.    Soon  my  blaze 
'Gan  curl  o'er  each  devoted  head: 
Anon  they  burnt  to  dusky  red, 
Then  ashy  gray,  —  and  then  they  fled. 

"And  when  I  turned  to  join  my  Sire, 

His  car  was  gone,  nor  'bove  the  ocean 
Was  seen  but  one  faint  streak  of  fire, 

Left  by  its  wheels'  too  rapid  motion. 
So  here  I  sit,  his  mourning  son, 
Paled  by  the  fray,  though  I  had  won ! " 
"  Nay,  still,  bright  Brother,  droop  not  so, " 
Sweet  Topaz  said ;  "  for  what  below, 
If  we  but  join,  can  near  us  show? 

"  We  '11  mingle  rays,  and  down  to  Earth 
Descending  with  some  gentle  shower, 
30 


THE  MARIGOLD. 


There  give  the  world  another  birth,  — 

A  bright  and  gorgeous  sunny  Flower ; 
So  bright,  that  when  the  leaden  cloud 
Of  darkling  thunder  seems  to  shroud 
The  land  in  night,  our  face  so  fair 
Shall  shine  upon  the  murky  air 
As  if  a  little  sun  were  there !  " 

"  Sweet  Topaz,  yes, "  the  Ruby  said  ; 

"  From  thee  for  worlds  I  would  not  vary, 
So  good  and  wise  thy  heart  and  head; 

And  we  will  call  the  flower  Mary ; 
For  once  I  saw  a  maiden's  eyes 
So  like  the  brightness  that  we  prize, 
Their  light,  I  'm  sure,  the  name  foretold,  — 
'T  was  hers,  —  but  still  our  hue  we  '11  hold." 
«  We  '11  call  it,  then,  the  Marigold." 

"  And  this  our  charm  no  sullen  knave,"  — 
So  spake  the  blending  Rays,  together,  — 

"  No  spirit  blue  can  ever  brave 

With  eastern  wind  or  hazy  w^eather ; 

For  all  who  look  upon  us  now 

Shall  feel  this  name  —  they  know  not  how  — 

Linked  with  a  past  and  pleasant  thought ; 

Some  gentle  kindness,  never  bought,  — 

Some  gift  of  heart,  for  memory  wrought." 


A  FRAGMENT. 


But  most  they  wondered  at  the  charm  she  gave 
To  common  things,  that  seemed  as  from  the  grave 
Of  mouldering  custom  suddenly  to  rise 
To  fresh  and  fairer  life  ;  a  life  so  new, 
And  yet  so  real,  —  to  the  heart  so  true,  — 
They  gazed  upon  the  world  as  if  a  thousand  ties, 
Till  now  to  all  unknown,  between  them  daily  grew. 

The  life  was  hers,  —  from  that  mysterious  cell 
Whence  sends  the  soul  her  self-diffusing  spell, 
Whose  once  embodied  breath  for  ever  is  : 
Though  ruthless  Time,  with  whom  no  creature  strives, 
At  every  step  treads  out  a  thousand  lives, 
Yet  brings  his  wasting  march  no  doom  to  this,  — 
Like  heritage  with  air,  that  aye  for  all  survives. 


THE  NIGHT- MARE. 


ALMAHAYA. 

Sister  Spirit,  tell  me  where 
Left  you  her,  —  the  Lady  fair, 
Whom  the  star  that  ruled  her  birth 
Gave  to  thee  to  guard  on  earth  ? 

ZELICAN. 

I  saw  her  but  now,  as  I  left  my  dell 

To  swing  the  tongue  of  yonder  bell, 

By  me  pass  on  the  Twilight's  steed,  — 

The  pale  gray  steed,  that  loves  to  feed 

On  toadstools  black,  in  swamps  that  grow, 

And  the  feathers  that  fall  from  the  moulting  crow. 

ALMAHAYA. 

She  went  not  alone  so  late,  I  trow  ? 

ZELICAN. 

Nay,  not  so ;  for  by  her  side 

A  green-eyed  Owl,  as  page,  did  ride. 

ALMAHAYA. 

And  whither  goes  she,  squired  so  ? 

ZELICAN. 

To  yon  church-yard  I  saw  her  go. 


THE  NIGHT-MARE. 


ALMAHAYA. 

But  what,  I  pray  thee,  doth  she  there  ? 

ZELICAN. 

She  goes  to  comb  and  curl  her  hair, 
And  scent  it  with  the  midnight  dew 
That  drips  from  yonder  mourning  yew. 

ALMAHAYA. 

Look  !  —  I  see  her  through  the  gloom, 

Making  her  toilet  on  a  tomb. 

I  know  her  errand.    Now 't  is  clear 

She  trims  her  smiles  and  trims  her  hair 

Thus  in  the  moonless,  starless  air, 

To  meet  the  Fiend  that  oft  doth  lie 

By  day  concealed  in  a  pigeon-pie. 

I  know  the  Fiend  :  I 've  seen  his  eyes 

Gleaming  through  those  fatal  pies  ; 

Those  pies  that  each  at  night  become 

A  new-made  grave,  —  when,  dark  and  dumb, 

The  Fiend  steps  out  to  the  Lady  fair, 

To  ride  by  her  side  through  the  startled  air, 

On  his  red-hoofed,  blue-eyed,  black  night-mare. 

ZELICAN. 

Hush,  good  Sister !  —  hist,  I  pray  ! 
Sure  I  heard  his  night-mare  neigh. 

ALMAHAYA. 

O,  haste  thee,  then,  your  charge  to  save  !  — 
'Tis  the  Fiend  himself!    In  yonder  grave 
I  see  his  head  :  and  now  he  looms, 
Like  a  column  of  smoke,  above  the  tombs ; 
Now  the  blue  eyes  of  his  snorting  mare 
Like  charnel-fires  upon  us  glare ; 
She  paws  the  ground  ;  —  but,  hark  !  that  groan 
30* 


354 


THE  NIGHT-MARE. 


ZELICAN. 

'T  is  only  a  kick  she  gave  to  a  bone : 
I 've  heard  a  skull  thus  near  her  moan. 

ALMAHAYA. 

But  listen  again ! 

ZELICAN. 

'T  is  the  laugh  of  despair  ; 
For  the  Fiend  is  now  with  the  Lady  fair. 
And  see  !  they  mount  on  the  flashing  air. 

ALMAHAYA. 

If  I  had  flesh,  ?t  would  creep  at  this. 
What 's  that?    Dost  hear? 

ZELICAN. 

'Tis  the  adder's  hiss 
In  the  jaws  of  a  toad  that  squats  by  the  yew  : 
I 've  seen  it  so  feed  till  it  upward  grew 
To  the  size  of  a  church. 

ALMAHAYA. 

It  grows  so  now ! 
And  the  vane  on  the  steeple  now  brushes  its  brow. 
But,  mercy  upon  us  !  —  O,  hear  how  it  roars ! 
Like  ten  thousand  thunders  

ZELICAN. 

The  toad  only  snores, 

After  supping,  good  Sister. 

ALMAHAYA. 

But  see  that  sight!  — 
Like  a  spark  struck  out  from  the  solid  night, 
Down  through  the  darkness  comes  a  star. 
Feel  you  not  its  fearful  jar  ?  — 
'T  is  tumbling  upon  us  !  and  with  it  the  mare,  — 
But  not  her  own  rider,  —  't  is  thy  Lady  fair, 


THE  NIGHT-MARE. 


355 


Now  clinging  for  life  to  her  shaggy  mane. 

O,  save  her,  dear  Sister !  —  she  touches  again 

The  earth,  and  —  O,  horrible !  —  how  the  earth  shakes! 

ZELICAN. 

Sweet  Sister,  no  more.    She  is  saved,  —  she  awakes. 


356 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Wise  is  the  face  of  Nature  unto  him 

Whose  heart,  amid  the  business  and  the  cares, 

The  cunning  and  bad  passions,  of  the  world, 

Still  keeps  its  freshness,  and  can  look  upon  her 

As  when  she  breathed  upon  his  schoolboy  face 

Her  morning  breath,  from  o'er  the  dewy  beds 

Of  infant  violets  waking  to  the  sun ;  — 

When  the  young  spirit,  only  recipient, 

So  drank  in  her  beauties,  that  his  heart 

Would  reel  within  him,  joining  jubilant 

The  dance  of  brooks  and  waving  woods  and  flowers. 


357 


THE  MAGIC  SLIPPERS. 


TO  MRS.  S  >  ON  HER  PRESENTING   THE  WRITER  A  PAIR  OF  CRIMSON 

SLIPPERS  WROUGHT  BY  HERSELF. 


I  know  not  if  a  dream  it  were, 
Or  daylight  scene  in  sunny  air ; 

But  once,  methought,  as  stretched  I  lay 
Beside  a  little  forest  Spring, 
And  musing  on  the  cares  that  cling 
To  every  heart,  no  earthly  thing, 

It  seemed,  could  chase  my  gloom  away. 

Above  that  little  Spring  there  stood, 
Like  sentries  to  the  sleeping  wood, 

Two  sister  Pines,  that  night  and  day 
Their  vigil  kept ;  and  ever  there 
A  soft,  low  murmur  filled  the  air,  — 
As  if  a  child  his  little  prayer 

Were  striving  in  a  dream  to  say. 


THE  MAGIC  SUFFER?. 


In  sooth,  it  was  a  solemn  sound ; 
So  pure,  so  child-like,  yet  profound, 

It  seemed  to  hold  me  in  a  spell. 
And  then,  methought,  the  murmur  broke 
Its  even  stream,  and  strangely  took 
The  form  of  words,  and  bade  me  look 

Within  that  little  forest  Well. 

I  looked,  —  and  lo  !  a  crimson  flush, 
Like  to  a  gentle  maiden's  blush, 

O'erspread  the  Spring ;  and  then  a  sigh 
Breathed  from  the  Pines.    A  deeper  hue,  — 
Which  now  to  tiny  vessels  grew, 
Riding  at  anchor  o'er  the  blue 

That  dyed  that  dark,  deep,  nether  sky. 

But  scarce  could  I  the  marvel  note, 
When  straight  within  each  magic  boat 

There  stood  two  gallant  Fairy  Skippers ; 
And  then  anon  they  bore  away, 
Skimming  the  little  azure  bay 
Swift  to  the  bank  where  stretched  I  lay, 

And  took  —  the  humble  form  of  slippers 

And  now,  in  sweetly  soothing  strain, 
Thus  came  the  Piny  voice  again  :  — 

"  O,  deem  not,  man,  the  gift  we  send 
Of  little  worth ;  that  gift  was  wrought 
Where  kind  affections  hallow  thought, 
And  give  —  what  wealth  has  never  bought  - 

In  every  gentle  heart  a  friend." 


THE   MAGIC  SLIPPERS. 


I  seized  the  gift  with  eager  joy ; 
And  then,  —  as  if  again  a  boy, 

A  careless,  happy  boy  once  more,  — 
How  pure,  and  beautiful,  and  kind 
Seemed  all  I  saw !    The  very  wind 
That  kissed  my  cheek  then  seemed  to  bind 

My  heart  to  all  it  travelled  o'er. 


360 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Who  knows  himself  must  needs  in  prophecy 

Too  oft  behold  his  own  most  sad  reverse ; 

E'en  like  his  noonday  shadow,  —  once  so  true, 

In  form  so  fair,  that  the  overpassing  sun 

Seemed,  as  in  love,  to  robe  it  with  the  blue 

Of  his  own  heaven.    Ah,  then  on  that  fair  shade, 

So  pure  and  beautiful,  't  were  peace  to  look  ! 

But  now,  how  changed !  distorted,  black,  and  stretched 

To  strange,  unnatural  length  by  that  same  sun, 

As  towards  the  west  he  travels  down  to  night, 

Their  common  sepulchre.    But  where  is  he,  — 

Ah,  where, — with  such  foreknowledge  blessed,  or  cursed? 


361 


THE  PARTING. 

WRITTEN  FOR  MUSIC,  AND  INSCRIBED  TO  MISS  R  


Not  "  Farewell ! "    O,  speak  it  never 

Time  and  Distance  in  it  find 
Limit  never,  —  flying  ever,  — 

Leaving  darkened  Hope  behind. 
Soon  yon  quiet  vessel's  motion, 
Soon  shall  yonder  rolling  ocean, 
Throw  my  spirit  o'er  the  past 
Closing  now  between  us  fast. 

Bid  me,  then,  if  aught  be  spoken, 
Bid  me  cheerily  "  Good  night "  ; 
So  that,  waking,  aye  unbroken 

Memory  link  it  with  the  light. 
Thus  shall  every  morning  cheer  me, 
Bring  thine  image  ever  near  me, 
With  that  word  that  seems  to  say, 
"  Part  we  only  for  a  day." 
31 


362 


THE  PARTING. 


Yet  I  know  not  why  I  ask  thee 

Now  to  play  a  hollow  part : 
No,  I  will  not,  will  not  task  thee 

Thus  to  veil  an  achinsr  heart. 
Truth  and  thou  were  never  parted  ; 
Part  not  now,  though,  broken-hearted, 
Truth  thy  faltering  tongue  compel 
Bitterly  to  say,  "  Farewell!" 

Speak  it,  then,  nor  stay  the  sadness 
Brimming  now  within  thine  eyes : 

Weep,  O,  weep,  —  nor  think  it  madness 
Thus  thy  burning  tear  to  prize. 

Man  to  woe  was  ever  plighted ; 

Then  be  mine  with  thine  united.  — 

O,  't  were  bliss,  to  him  unknown, 

Mourning  for  himself  alone, 


363 


ON  GREENOUGH'S  GROUP  OF  THE 
ANGEL  AND  CHILD. 


I  stood  alone :  nor  word,  nor  other  sound, 
Broke  the  mute  solitude  that  closed  me  round ; 
As  when  the  Air  doth  take  her  midnight  sleep, 
Leaving  the  wintry  stars  her  watch  to  keep, 
So  slept  she  now,  at  noon.    But  not  alone 
My  spirit  then  :  a  light  within  me  shone 

That  was  not  mine ;  and  feelings  undefined, 
And  thoughts,  flowed  in  upon  me  not  my  own. 
'T  was  that  deep  mystery,  —  for  aye  unknown,  — 

The  living  presence  of  Another's  mind. 

Another  mind  was  there,  —  the  gift  of  few,  — 

That  by  its  own  strong  will  can  all  that 's  true 

In  its  own  nature  unto  others  give, 

And,  mingling  life  with  life,  seem  there  to  live. 

I  felt  it  then  in  mine :  and,  O,  how  fair, 

How  beautiful,  the  thoughts  that  met  me  there,  — 

Visions  of  Love  and  Purity  and  Truth ! 
Though  form  distinct  had  each,  they  seemed  as 't  were 
Embodied  all  of  one  celestial  air, 

To  beam  forever  in  coequal  youth. 


364 


ON   6REEN0UG11  S   GROUP  OF 


And  thus  I  learned,  as  in  the  mind  they  moved, 
These  Stranger  Thoughts  the  one  the  other  loved ; 
That  Purity  loved  Truth,  because  't  was  true, 
And  Truth,  because 't  was  pure,  the  first  did  woo ; 
While  Love,  as  pure  and  true,  did  love  the  twain ; 
Then  Love  was  loved  of  them,  for  that  sweet  chain 

That  bound  them  all.    Thus  sure,  as  passionless, 
Their  love  did  grow,  till  one  harmonious  strain 
Of  melting  sounds  they  seemed  ;  then,  changed  again, 

One  Angel  Form  they  took,  —  Self- Happiness. 

This  Angel  Form  the  gifted  Artist  saw- 
That  held  me  in  his  spell.    'T  was  his  to  draw 
The  veil  of  sense,  and  see  the  immortal  race, 
The  Forms  spiritual  that  know  not  place. 
He  saw  it  in  the  quarry,  deep  in  earth, 
And  stayed  it  by  his  will,  and  gave  it  birth 

E'en  to  the  world  of  sense  ;  bidding  its  cell, 
The  cold,  hard  marble,  thus  in  plastic  girth 
The  shape  ethereal  fix,  and  body  forth 

A  Being  of  the  skies,  —  with  man  to  dwell. 

And  then  another  Form  beside  it  stood : 

'T  was  one  of  this  our  world,  though  the  warm  blood 

Had  from  it  passed,  —  exhaled  as  in  a  breath 

Drawn  from  its  lips  by  the  cold  kiss  of  Death. 

Its  little  "  dream  of  human  life  "  had  fled ; 

And  yet  it  seemed  not  numbered  with  the  dead, 

But  one  emerging  to  a  life  so  bright, 
That,  as  the  wondrous  nature  o'er  it  spread, 
Its  very  consciousness  did  seem  to  shed 

Rays  from  within,  and  clothe  it  all  in  light. 


THE   ANGEL    AND  CHILD. 


Now  touched  the  Angel  Form  its  little  hand, 

Turning  upon  it  with  a  look  so  bland, 

And  yet  so  full  of  majesty,  as  less 

Than  holy  natures  never  may  impress,  — 

And  more  than  proudest  guilt  unmoved  may  brook 

The  Creature  of  the  Earth  now  felt  that  look, 

And  stood  in  blissful  awe,  —  as  one  above, 
Who  saw  its  name  in  the  Eternal  Book, 
And  Him  that  opened  it ;  e'en  Him  that  took 

The  Little  Child,  and  blessed  it  in  his  love. 


i  v 
31* 


366 


SONG. 


O,  ask  me  not  why  thus  I  weep ; 

I  may  not  tell  thee  why  : 
The  fountain  oft  is  dark  and  deep 

That  gushes  from  the  eye. 

It  should  not  be,  I  hear  thee  say, 
While  thou  art  by  my  side  ;  — 

As  if  the  heart  could  e'er  be  gay 
Of  one  so  soon  a  bride ! 

It  is  not  grief  that  brings  the  tear, 

Nor  dread  of  coming  woe ; 
But,  O,  't  is  something  which  I  fear 

No  mortal  long  may  know. 

For  when  I  hear  that  tone  of  love,  — 
Unlike  all  earthly  sound,  — 

It  seems  like  music  from  above, 
That  lifts  me  from  the  ground. 

And  yet  I  know  that  I 'm  of  earth, 

Where  all  that  live  must  die : 
And  these  my  tears  but  owe  their  birth 

To  bliss  for  earth  too  high. 


367 


ON  KEAN'S  HAMLET. 


(Xthou  who  standest  'mid  the  bards  of  old, 
Like  Chimborazo,  when  the  setting  sun 
Has  left  his  hundred  mountains  dark  and  dun, 
Sole  object  visible,  the  imperial  One, 

In  purple  robe,  and  diadem  of  gold,  — 

Immortal  Shakspeare !  who  can  hope  to  tell, 
With  tongue  less  gifted,  of  the  pleasing  sadness 
Wrought  in  thy  deepest  scenes  of  woe  and  madness  ? 
Who  hope  by  words  to  paint  the  ecstatic  gladness 

Of  spirits  leaping  'mid  thy  merry  spell  ? 

When  I  have  gazed  upon  thy  wondrous  page, 
And  seen,  as  in  some  necromantic  glass, 
Thy  visionary  forms  before  me  pass, 
Like  breathing  things  of  every  living  class, 

Goblin  and  Hero,  Villain,  Fool,  and  Sage, 

It  seemed  a  task  not  Buonarroti's  e'en, 

Nor  Raffael's  hand  could  master  by  their  art,  — 
To  give  the  semblance  of  the  meanest  part 
Of  all  thy  vast  creation,  or  the  heart 

Touch  as  thou  touchest  with  a  kindred  scene. 


368 


on  kean's  hamlet. 


And  vainer  still,  methought,  by  mimic  tone, 
And  feigned  look,  and  attitude,  and  air, 
The  Actor's  toil ;  for  self  will  have  its  share 
With  nicest  mimicry,  and,  though  it  spare 

To  others  largely,  gives  not  all  its  own. 

So  did  I  deem,  till,  living  to  my  view, 

Scorning  his  country  while  he  sought  her  good, 
In  Kemble  forth  the  unbending  Roman*  stood ; 
Till,  snuffing  at  the  scent  of  human  blood, 

In  Cooke  strode  forth  the  unrelenting  Jew.f 

But  these  were  beings  tangible  in  vice, 

Their  purpose  searchable,  their  every  thought 
Indexed  in  living  men ;  yet  only  sought, 
Plain  as  they  seem,  by  genius,  —  only  bought 

By  genius  even  with  laborious  price. 

But  who,  methought,  in  confidence  so  brave, 
Doffing  himself,  shall  dare  that  form  assume 
So  strangely  mixed  of  wisdom,  wit,  and  gloom,  — 
Playful  in  misery  even  at  the  tomb,  — 

Of  hope,  distrust,  of  faith  and  doubt,  the  slave  ? 

That  being  strange,  that  only  in  the  brain 
Perchance  has  lived,  yet  still  so  rarely  knit- 
In  all  its  parts,  —  its  wisdom  to  its  wit, 
And  doubt  to  faith,  loathing  to  love,  so  fit,  — 

It  seems  like  one  that  lived,  and  lives  again ! 

Who,  then,  dare  wear  the  princely  Denmark's  form  ? 
What  starts  before  me  ?  —  Ha !  't  is  he  I  've  seen 
Oft  in  a  day-dream,  when  my  youth  was  green,  — 
The  Dane  himself,  —  the  Dane !  Who  says 't  is  Kean  ? 

Yet  sure  it  moves,  —  as  if  its  blood  were  warm. 


*  Coriolanus. 


f  Shylock. 


on  kean's  hamlet. 


369 


If  this  be  Kean,  then  Hamlet  lived  indeed! 
Look !  how  his  purpose  hurries  him  apace, 
Seeking  a  fitful  rest  from  place  to  place ! 
Arid  yet  his  trouble  fits  him  with  a  grace, 

As  if  his  heart  did  love  what  makes  it  bleed. 

He  seems  to  move  as  in  a  world  ideal, 

A  world  of  thought,  where  wishes  have  their  end 
In  wishing  merely,  where  resolves  but  spend 
Themselves  resolving,  —  as  his  will  did  lend 
Not  counsel  e'en  his  body  to  defend. 

Or  Kean  or  Hamlet,  —  what  I  see  is  real! 


370 


A  WORD. 


MAN. 


How  vast  a  world  is  figured  by  a  word ! 

A  little  word,  a  very  point  of  sound, 

Breathed  by  a  breath,  and  in  an  instant  heard ; 

Yet  leaving  that  may  well  the  soul  astound,  — 

To  sense  a  shape,  to  thought  without  a  bound. 

For  who  shall  hope  the  mystery  to  scan 

Of  that  dark  being  symbolized  in  man  ? 

His  outward  form  seems  but  a  speck  in  space : 

But  what  far  star  shall  check  the  eternal  race 

Of  one  small  thought  that  rays  from  out  his  mind  ? 

For  evil,  or  for  good,  still,  still  must  travel  on 

His  every  thought,  though  worlds  are  left  behind, 

Nor  backward  can  the  race  be  ever  run. 

How  fearful,  then,  that  the  first  evil  ray, 

Still  red  with  Abel's  blood,  is  on  its  way ! 


371 


A  FRAGMENT. 


I. 

O,  who  hath  lived  the  ills  to  know 
Which  make  the  sum  of  life  below, 
That  hath  not  felt,  if,  'mid  the  brood 
Of  half-wrought  beings,  hither  sent 
*     As  if  in  promised  punishment 
Of  vicious  ancestry,  there  stood 
A  Form  of  purest  symmetry,  — 
Where  Nature  seemed  as  she  would  try, 
In  spite  of  Vice,  to  keep  on  earth 
Some  vestige  of  primeval  birth ;  — 
Ah,  who  on  such  a  form  hath  dwelt, 
And  hath  not  in  his  gazing  felt 
A  sudden  stream  of  horror  rush 
Back  on  his  heart,  to  think  how  soon, 
Ere  yet  perchance  she  reach  her  noon, 
The  Giant  Sin  may  grinning  crush 
This  living  flower  of  Paradise,  — 
May  send  its  fragrance,  born  to  rise, 
Downward,  a  hellish  sacrifice ! 


A  FRAGMENT. 


There  is  a  deep,  foreboding  flush, 
That  fain  would  seem  a  truant  blush, 
Doth  in  the  smooth  and  lovely  cheek 
Of  youthful  Beauty  oft  bespeak 
The  victim  of  a  swift  decay ; 
And,  when  the  light  of  love  doth  rise 
Effulgent  in  her  lucid  eyes, 
Full  many  a  heart,  that  joyous  fell 
A  captive  to  their  radiant  spell, 
May  now  in  bitter  sadness  tell 
How,  like  the  last  protracted  ray 
Of  the  last  Greenland  summer  day, 
That  flashes  on  the  western  wave, 
They  flashed,  and  sunk,  —  but  sunk  into  the  grave ! 

II. 

So  seemed  Monaldi  to  the  eye 

Experienced  in  this  world  of  woe ; 

Too  blest  for  mortal  long  below, — * 
Too  blest  for  one  who  blest  would  die. 
Of  lineage  proud,  his  ancient  name 

Had  long  in  Fiorenza  stood 

The  record  of  the  noblest  blood 
"Which  flowed  for  Fiorenza's  fame. 
And  yet  on  him  did  Nature's  hand 

Such  rare  and  varied  gifts  bestow, 

His  virtues  rather  seemed  to  throw 

A  heritless,  reflected  grace 

Through  ages  back  upon  his  race, 
The  mightiest  of  a  mighty  land. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


373 


Nor  were  the  lighter  gifts  denied 

Of  manly  form  or  noble  mien ; 

Such  form,  if  ancient  Greece  had  seen, 
Like  Jason's  had  been  deified, 

And  virgin  hands  with  flowers  had  dressed 

An  altar  for  the  heavenly  guest, 

As  if,  to  bless  their  grateful  eyes, 

Apollo's  self  had  left  the  skies, 

Greeting  their  pious  sacrifice. 
***** 

She  had  an  eye  of  such  a  hue, 
So  ever- varying,  ever  new, 
That  none  on  whom  its  lustre  fell 
Could  e'er  forget,  —  could  ever  tell 
If  like  the  mild  approach  of  day, 
The  morning  twilight's  watery  gray ; 
Or  like  the  noontide's  dazzling  blue ; 
Or  beamy  brown,  when  evening  dew 
Prolongs  the  dim,  departing  light ; 
Or  the  jet,  that  seems  to  quench  the  sight, 
Of  a  starless,  still  autumnal  night. 
For  oft 't  was  like  an  armed  knight, 
In  steel  encompassed,  dark  and  bright, 
And  fiercely  flashed,  as  if 't  would  lead 
Onward  to  some  immortal  deed  : 
And  then  it  seemed  an  elfin  well, 
Imbowered  in  some  sequestered  dell, 
Where  Cupids  sport  in  ceaseless  motion, 
Bathing  as  in  an  amber  ocean ! 

Ah,  then  he  wished  that  life  would  prove 
For  ever  thus,  a  dream  of  love ! 
32 


374 


A  FRAGMENT. 


But  oft,  —  more  oft,  —  with  searing  pain, 
It  seemed  a  wandering  comet's  train, 
Streaming  athwart  his  burning  brain,  — 
Foreboding  with  its  lurid  flame 
An  evil  yet  without  a  name ! 
And  well,  Monaldi,  mayst  thou  rue 
This  vision  which  thy  fancy  drew ; 
For  thine  was  but  a  fearful  bliss,  — 
A  trancing,  but  a  poisoned,  kiss ! 

***** 


375 


ON  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


'T  is  riot  to  honor  thee  by  verse  of  mine 

I  bear  a  record  of  thy  wondrous  power  ; 
Thou  stand'st  alone,  and  needest  not  to  shine 
"With  borrowed  lustre  :  for  the  light  is  thine 

Which  no  man  giveth;  and,  though  comets  lower 
Portentous  round  thy  sphere,  thou  still  art  bright ; 

Though  many  a  satellite  about  thee  fall, 
Leaving  their  stations  merged  in  trackless  night, 
Yet  take  not  they  from  that  supernal  light 

Which  lives  within  thee,  sole,  and  free  of  all. 


376 


/ 


RUBENS. 


Thus  o'er  his  art  indignant  Rubens  reared 
His  mighty  head,  nor  critic  armies  feared. 
His  lawless  style,  from  vain  pretension  free, 
Impetuous  rolling  like  a  troubled  sea, 
High  o'er  the  rocks  of  Reason's  ridgy  verge 
Impending  hangs  ;  but,  ere  the  foaming  surge 
Breaks  o'er  the  bound,  the  under-ebb  of  taste 
Back  from  the  shore  impels  the  watery  waste. 


377 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  DIARY  OF 
AN  ENNUYEE," 

ONE  OF  THE  TRUEST  AND  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  BOOKS  EVER  WRIT- 
TEN ON  ITALY. 


Sweet,  gentle  Sibyl!  would  I  had  the  charm, 
E'en  while  the  spell  upon  my  heart  is  warm, 

To  waft  my  spirit  to  thy  far-off  dreams, 
That,  giving  form  and  melody  to  air, 
The  long-sealed  fountains  of  my  youth  might  there 

Before  thee  shout,  and  toss  their  starry  stream, 
Flushed  with  the  living  light  which  youth  alone 
Sheds  like  the  flash  from  heaven,  —  that  straight  is  gone ! 

For  thou  hast  waked  as  from  the  sleep  of  years,  — 
No,  not  the  memory,  with  her  hopes  and  fears,  — 

But  e'en  the  breathing,  bounding,  present  youth  ; 
And  thou  hast  waked  him  in  that  vision  clime, 
Which,  having  seen,  no  eye  the  second  time 

May  ever  see  in  its  own  glorious  truth ;  — 


378  TO   THE   AUTHOR  OF 

As  if  it  were  not,  in  this  world  of  strife, 
Save  to  the  first  deep  consciousness  of  life. 

And  yet,  by  thy  sweet  sorcery,  is  mine 

Again  the  same  fresh  heart,  —  e'en  fresh  as  thine,  — 

As  when,  entranced,  I  saw  the  mountain  kings, 
The  giant  Alps,  from  their  dark  purple  beds 
Rise  ere  the  sun,*  the  while  their  crowned  heads 

Flashed  with  his  thousand  heralds'  golden  wings ; 
The  while  the  courtly  Borromean  Isles 
Looked  on  their  mirrored  forms  with  rippling  smiles. 

E'en  in  thy  freshness  do  I  see  thee  rise, 
Bright,  peerless  Italy,  thy  gorgeous  skies, 

Thy  lines  of  harmony,  thy  nameless  hues,  — 
As 't  were  by  passing  Angels  sportive  dropped 
From  flowers  of  Paradise,  but  newly  cropped, 

Still  bathed  and  glittering  with  celestial  dews ! 
I  see  thee,  —  and  again  what  visions  pass, 
Called  up  by  thee,  as  in  some  magic  glass ! 

Again  I  feel  the  Tuscan  Zephyrs  brush 

My  youthful  brow,  and  see  them  laughing  rush, 

As  if  their  touch  another  sense  had  given, 
Swift  o'er  the  dodging  grass,  like  living  things ; 
In  myriads  glancing  from  their  flickering  wings 

The  rose  and  azure  of  their  native  heaven  ;  — 
And  now  they  mount,  and  through  the  sullen  green 
Of  the  dark  laurel  dart  a  silvery  sheen. 


*  The  writer  passed  a  night,  and  saw  the  sun  rise,  on  the  Lago  Maggiore. 


THE   DIARY   OF   AN  ENNUYEE. 


379 


O,  now,  as  once,  pure  playmates  of  the  soul ! 
Bear  me,  as  then,  where  the  white  billows  roll 

Of  yon  ethereal  ocean,  poised  above. 
How  touching  thus  from  that  o'erhanging  sea 
To  look  upon  the  world !   Now,  more  to  me 

Its  wrongs  and  sorrows,  nay,  a  wider  love 
Grows  on  my  heart,  than  where  its  pleasures  press, 
And  throng  me  round  as   one  whom   they  would 
bless. 

This  is  thy  voice,  kind  Nature,  in  the  heart; 
Who  loves  thee  truly,  loves  thee  not  apart 

From  his  own  kind;  for  in  thy  humblest  work 
There  lives  an  echo  to  some  unborn  thought, 
Akin  to  man,  his  Maker,  or  his  lot. 

Nay,  who  has  found  not  in  his  bosom  lurk 
Some  stranger  feeling,  far  remote  from  earth, 
That  still  through  earthly  things  awaits  a  birth  ? 

O,  thus  to  me  be  thou  still  ministrant, 
Still  of  the  universal  Love  descant 

That  all  things  crave,  —  thus  visible  in  thee, 
The  type  and  register  of  what  man  was 
Before  sin  thralled  him,  substituting  laws 

That  fain  from  suffering  would  his  spirit  free ; 
Nay,  more,  be  hope,  —  the  soul's  sure  prophecy 
Of  lost,  regained,  primeval  harmony. 

And  now  to  thee,  fair  Sibyl,  would  I  turn ; 
But  how  to  say  farewell  I  may  not  learn. 
We  part,  —  but  not  forgetting  we  have  met. 


380    TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  ENNUYEE. 

May  that  sweet  sadness  thou  so  well  dost  feign 
To  thee  be  ever  feigned,  —  be  but  the  strain 

To  which  the  happy  soul  doth  often  set 
Her  happiest  moods  ;  for  joy  and  sadness  dwell 
As  neighbours  in  the  heart ;  —  and  now  farewell ! 


THE  END. 


Allston.-  DANA,  R.  H.,  Jr.,  ed. 
Allston.  N.  Y.,  1850.  380pp.  8vo. 


23. 


.t  Paris, 
Inscribed: 


J  GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE  L 


3  3125  01360  1287 


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